There was a brief stillness in the air as Helena's words settled in, and Godric's crimson eyes widened in realization. His gaze flicked to the red cloaks draped over the newcomers' shoulders, each bearing the Ignis crest—Visionary cloaks, the same as the one Genji had worn when they first met. But it wasn't just that. It was the names. His jaw nearly hit the floor.
"Wait… did you just say Pendragon?"
Helena gave a small, knowing shrug, rubbing the back of her head. "I know, real shocker. I was just as surprised when I found out that the crown prince and princess of Camelot weren't just students here, but Ignis Visionaries."
"Precisely," the boy said smoothly, slipping his wand back into his robes, "I'm Arthur." He then gestured to the girl standing beside him, who had remained silent, her gaze razor-sharp as they tracked Godric's every move. "And this is my sister, Artoria. And, just so we're clear," he added, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm the older twin."
Then, extending a hand, Arthur flashed a charming grin. "Apologies for not being here sooner to give you a proper welcome—family troubles and all."
But before Godric could respond, he felt the weight of Artoria's gaze, burning into him like a brand. No—not at him. At his sword. He felt it immediately, a strange tension creeping beneath his skin, an unspoken recognition in the way her emerald eyes never wavered from the blade at his side. He held the stare for a moment before smoothly sliding his sword back into its scabbard behind him, then finally grasping Arthur's hand in a firm shake.
"Pleasure," he said curtly, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Should I bow and call you and your sister Your Highness?" A faintly sardonic tone slipped into his voice, and Artoria's eyebrow arched ever so slightly.
Arthur let out a hearty laugh, shaking Godric's hand with further enthusiasm. "Oh, please don't. Honorifics make me nauseous." He scratched the back of his head. "Besides, as long as we're here, we're just students. Same as you."
Arthur cast a sideways glance at his sister, smirking. "Don't mind her," he said, turning back to Godric with an easy shrug. "She's not exactly the conversational type. More the silent, broody type—you know the kind." He leaned in slightly. "Doesn't do her love life any favors, honestly. The last poor sod who tried to date her ran home in tears." He clicked his tongue. "Granted, he was a pompous little upstart. Nobles, you know how they are."
A quiet, irritated growl escaped Artoria, her green eyes flashing with barely concealed exasperation.
Arthur barely suppressed a chuckle, straightening up as he grinned. "See? She's just charming."
Then, without warning, Arthur leaned in closer. "By the way… my sister and I caught your little duel with the Calishans." His smirk deepened. "I must say, I've never seen Artoria so taken with a fight before. I daresay she's a fan."
Artoria shot him a cold, sharp glare, her jaw tightening ever so slightly. Arthur merely pulled away with an easygoing smile, as though he hadn't just thrown his sister under the proverbial carriage.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "it's been a long day, and we shouldn't keep you from whatever brooding business you've got." He gave a casual salute. "We'll talk more in time. Until then—be seeing you."
Then, as he turned to Helena, his smirk took on an even more mischievous edge. "And you, Helena… try not to stay up too late with your…" He waggled his eyebrows. "…duties."
Helena groaned. "For the love of the Gods, just go."
Both siblings strolled past them, heading toward their respective dorms, and Godric finally exhaled. But his gaze remained fixed on Artoria's back. More specifically, the sword strapped at her side. There was something about it—something familiar. From the shape to the engravings, from the make to the craftsmanship, it mirrored his own in every way except for color. A gnawing feeling took root in his chest, whispering a possibility he wasn't sure he was ready to entertain.
Their swords…
They might have come from the same craftsman.
****
As Arthur and Artoria made their way toward the far end of the common room, the weight of their presence did not go unnoticed. Eyes followed them—some cautious, others filled with admiration. Arthur, ever the charismatic one, offered warm smiles and easy waves to those who greeted him, while Artoria remained composed, her expression unreadable, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword.
Months had passed since their departure from Excalibur Academy, and much had changed. The Congregation buzzed with the echoes of a Bellum Inter Duos that had shaken its very foundation, and Arthur could not help but lament that he had only witnessed the event through a screen rather than feeling the heat of the battlefield himself.
But what intrigued him most was the name that now resounded through the halls—Godric Gryffindor.
"So, sister," Arthur mused as he glanced at Artoria. "What do you think of the boy? I must admit, he's quite a bit shorter than I expected."
Artoria's gaze flickered, unimpressed. "In all honesty? I fail to see the appeal," she replied coolly. "His reputation is overblown, built entirely on his victory over the Calishans. And Volg?"
She exhaled sharply. "Volg is no Laxus. From what I saw, his swordplay was mediocre at best. If not for the dramatics surrounding his duel—the whole tragic love story that had the crowds eating out of his hand—it would have been just another day in The Congregation."
Arthur chuckled. "Ah, dear sister, you were never one for theatrics."
Artoria arched an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Perhaps not," Arthur conceded, rubbing his fingers together absentmindedly. "But I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss him. His hands—did you notice them? Calloused. Coarse. That's not the grip of a boy playing at swords, but the hands of a warrior." He cast her a sidelong glance. "A lot like yours."
Artoria scoffed, crossing her arms. "Calloused hands do not make a warrior, Arthur. You know that as well as I do." She exhaled. "And from what I've heard, the boy has been… unstable. Reckless."
"Ah, yes," Arthur murmured, his expression briefly clouded with thought. "But can you blame him?"
"A warrior without restraint is no warrior at all," Artoria countered. "Right now, he's nothing but a wounded lion, lashing out at anything and everything in its path."
Arthur's smirk returned. "Well then, I suppose we'll just have to keep an eye on our lion-hearted friend, won't we?" His smile turned knowing. "And besides, I have a feeling he'll make a fine addition to our Clan. Him and his friends."
Artoria exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "That makes one of us."
Arthur's smile didn't waver. "Gawain might think differently."
She shot him a glare, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Don't bring that half-wit into this."
****
Helena shot Godric a sideways glance before nudging him playfully. "It seems Arthur's taken a liking to you." She smirked. "And I think his sister has too."
Godric rolled his eyes. "Could've fooled me. She looked like she wanted to take my head off the entire time."
"Don't take it personally. She's that way with everyone." Helena folded her arms. "Arthur's the charmer, the social butterfly. Artoria, well… let's just say she's a sword wrapped in ice. Nevertheless, they're both powerful in their own right."
"I wasn't there to witness it firsthand," Helena admitted, "but I heard that during the Visionary Trials, Arthur and Artoria fought each other to a standstill. Neither one could gain the upper hand, and in the end, Headmaster Blaise made an unprecedented decision—he named them both Visionaries."
She exhaled, shaking her head as if still trying to wrap her mind around it. "Their legend doesn't stop there. Within The Congregation, they aren't just respected—they're revered." She tucking her hands behind her back. "There, they're known as The Dragons of Ignis."
Godric gave her a measured look. "Do they both sit at The Table?"
Helena hesitated for a beat before answering. "Yes and no. They co-lead their Clan, but only one of them holds a seat at The Table—Artoria. Arthur, however,…" She shifted slightly. "He's their Patron, and he also happens to be one of the Lords of The Hellfire Club."
Godric blinked. "The Hellfire-what-now?"
Helena's eyes went wide as if she had just realized she'd said too much. "Oh, snap. Um… can you please just pretend I didn't say that?" She forced a sheepish grin.
Godric's crimson eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me there's another secret organization within The Congregation?" He leaned in slightly. "One I don't know about?"
Helena sighed, rubbing her temples. "Not exactly. The High Table and The Hellfire Club operate adjacent to each other, but The Hellfire Club is even more exclusive. I'd love to explain more, but now's really not the time." She cast a glance around the crowded Common Room. "Besides, even us Overseers don't know all their members. They're that secretive."
A brief silence passed before they both turned to Jeanne, who had been listening intently. Her expression was one of complete and utter confusion, her brows furrowed, lips slightly parted. Godric could swear he saw metaphorical steam rising from her head, like an overworked engine about to explode.
"Uh… I'm lost," Jeanne admitted, blinking rapidly. "The Congregation? The High Table? Clans? The Hellfire Club? None of this was mentioned in orientation."
Helena froze for a moment, eyes darting between Jeanne and Godric, before muttering, "Oh, boy." Sweat beaded on her brow as she fumbled for words. "Um, ah…"
Godric smirked as he turned to leave. "Don't look at me, Helena. You're the Overseer, remember? Just ease her in."
"Ass!" Helena shot back as he waved her off, disappearing toward his dorm.
She then turned back to Jeanne, sighing. "Alright. Let's start from the beginning…"
****
Jeanne sat in stunned silence, her mind racing to absorb everything Helena had just explained. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering golden light across the plush crimson couches and dark wooden beams that lined the common room. Outside the towering glass windows, the moon hung high, silver light spilling across the stone floor. Most of the Ignis students had already retired to their dorms, leaving the space quiet save for the occasional murmurs of a few night owls lingering by the fire.
"By the grace of Mary," Jeanne finally exhaled, shaking her head in disbelief. "To think this Academy harbors such secrets… An organization as intricate and influential as The Congregation, right under everyone's noses." She folded her hands in her lap. "The Clans, the High Table, the rules and laws… And the professors simply allow it?"
Helena chuckled, reclining against the couch with a knowing smirk. "If I had a Plata for every time a new student asked me that, I'd be rich." She gave Jeanne a sidelong glance. "Long story short, the teachers know—it's an open secret. They turn a blind eye so long as we don't break any school rules or, you know, commit crimes." She shrugged.
"Besides, almost every student in Excalibur is either part of The Congregation or knows someone who is." Helena stretched her arms, then sat forward. "Come with me tomorrow after dinner, I'll give you the grand tour."
Jeanne's lips curled into an amused smile. "I must admit, I am quite intrigued. Avalon is so new to me… filled with wonder and mystery." Her gaze wandered for a moment, as if still struggling to comprehend the enormity of it all.
"So, Jeanne," Helena tilted her head curiously. "You mentioned you were from France. Tell me a bit more about yourself—if you don't mind, of course."
Jeanne blinked at the sudden change in topic but quickly composed herself. "Ah, well… I come from Domrémy, a small village in the northeast of France," she said, tucking a loose strand of golden hair behind her ear.
"As for my lineage, there isn't much to tell. I was born mundane—both my parents are peasants, though we do not live in complete squalor." A soft, almost wistful smile crossed her lips. "It was only fairly recently that I discovered magic ran in my family—through my father's side."
Helena's expression softened. "That must have been quite the revelation."
Jeanne nodded. "It was… a surprise, to say the least. My mother, however, was less than thrilled." She chuckled, though there was a note of melancholy in her tone. "She is a pious woman, after all. To her, magic is unnatural, something beyond the will of God."
Helena frowned. "I hope that didn't cause too much trouble for you."
Jeanne shook her head gently. "Thankfully, no. I have Headmaster Blaise to thank for that." Her sapphire-blue eyes glimmered with admiration. "He has a way with words, I must admit. He spoke with my parents, assured them that my abilities were not a curse but a gift. Somehow, he convinced them to send me here, to Excalibur Academy." She let out a soft sigh. "And so, here I am."
Helena grinned. "That sounds exactly like Headmaster Blaise. The man could probably convince a dragon to give up its hoard."
Jeanne laughed lightly, her posture relaxing for the first time since their conversation began. "It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest."
Jeanne fidgeted slightly, her thumbs twiddling in her lap, lips pursed as if she were hesitant to speak. She took a quiet breath before finally gathering the courage.
"Helena, may I ask you something?"
Helena's amber eyes perked with curiosity. "Of course! Feel free to ask me anything. I am the House Monitor, after all." She flashed a reassuring smile. "It's part of the job."
Jeanne hesitated for a moment longer before finally speaking. "It's not about something… rather someone." Her sapphire gaze met Helena's, searching for understanding. "Godric. I've heard bits and pieces here and there about what happened, but I've never been able to get the full story."
She exhaled softly, a contemplative look crossing her face. "The look in his eyes… behind all that darkness, all that anger… it's sadness, isn't it?"
Helena's smile faded as her gaze lowered to her hands resting in her lap. She glanced at the clock mounted on the wall, as if weighing whether to burden Jeanne with the truth.
"Ah… that." A quiet sigh escaped her lips. "It's a long story, Jeanne. A long, sad, and tragic story." Her fingers traced an absent-minded circle on the cushion beside her. "But if you have the time, I wouldn't mind sharing it with you."
Jeanne's expression softened, a small, warm smile forming. "Please do." Her words were quiet, yet earnest. "I'd like to know Godric a little better."
Helena arched an eyebrow, arms folding across her chest. "Why the sudden interest in him, though?" A teasing smirk played at her lips. "Though, I do understand the novelty. He's not exactly your typical Excalibur student."
Jeanne's posture stiffened slightly, her fingers twitching in her lap as she tried to suppress the heat creeping up her cheeks. "Oh, well… um." She swallowed, choosing her words carefully. "It's nothing more than objective curiosity, that's all."
Helena smirked, her amber gaze sharpening as she scrutinized Jeanne's expression. "Hhm." She tilted her head slightly, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Alright, if you say so. But just so you know—if you're interested in him," she made a small gesture with her fingers, "as in interested interested, I'd suggest forgetting about it." She leaned back against the couch. "It's not going to work out. Trust me."
Jeanne's face flushed a deeper shade of red as she sputtered. "N-no! This was not my intention! I—I want nothing of the sort, honest!" Her hands flailed slightly before she composed herself, clearing her throat and folding them neatly in her lap. "I genuinely am just curious, that's all."
Helena chuckled knowingly. "Just a word of caution, Jeanne," she said, lacing her fingers together as she settled her hands on her lap. "Now then…" She exhaled, her expression growing more somber. "It all started on the first day of school…"
****
The lively hum of the tavern filled the air, voices rising and falling over the clinking of tankards and the occasional burst of laughter. The scent of roasted meats mingled with the sharp tang of ale, wafting through the crowded space where Caerleon's locals gathered in their usual evening revelry. Talk of the changing season blended with the murmurs of increased security, the latest incidents at the Clock Tower now the dominant topic of conversation. Theories, speculations, and outright complaints flowed freely, much to the chagrin of the AEGIS guards stationed nearby—men who had little interest in being entangled in matters far beyond their pay grade.
At the bar, the bartender tipped an empty mug beneath a tap, the golden liquid frothing as it filled the tall pint glass. Barmaids weaved through the crowd, balancing trays of steaming meals and refilled drinks, their bright smiles hiding the exhaustion of a long shift. Amidst the din of the tavern, at a round table near the back, a group of young men sat hunched over their drinks. Their tankards were already half-empty, the amber liquid within steadily vanishing as the night stretched on. It was their third round—and not their last.
Cardin stared down at his pint, watching the bubbles rise and pop against the frothy surface. His jaw still ached, a dull throb that no amount of healing magic could fully mend. Doctor Adani had warned that nerve damage was likely, a lingering consequence of the brutal strike Gryffindor had dealt him. Every movement of his mouth sent a faint reminder of that moment—the crack of bone, the flash of agony, and the taste of blood filling his mouth. The steel caps on his teeth were a permanent mark of his humiliation, a costly replacement for what had been shattered beyond repair. He could have had them magically restored, but such luxuries required money—money he no longer had.
Not only had he and his Clan been humiliated in the arena, but their actions had finally reached the ears of Headmaster Blaise. The verdict had been swift and absolute: immediate expulsion. No appeals. No second chances. Their names were stricken from the school's records as if they had never belonged there at all. And then came the fallout.
His parents, once so proud of their son's strength and ambition, had cast him out without hesitation. Their disappointment had been cold and final—he had tarnished their name, and they would not bear the weight of his disgrace. He had returned home only to find his belongings already packed and waiting for him outside the estate gates. No words, no parting looks. Just silence.
One by one, his eyes drifted across the faces of his companions, each of them just as lost, just as furious. Once, they had been the pride of Ferrum, a Clan of strength and dominance. Now, they were nothing. Stripped of titles, privileges, and purpose.
Cardin exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around the tankard's handle.
"Gryffindor," he muttered, the name seething from his lips like poison. His knuckles whitened. "It's all his fault."
"You still brooding over Gryffindor?" The boy sitting beside Cardin leaned back in his chair, tilting his pint lazily as he took a swig. "He came, he wiped the floor with us, and that's that. Let it go, mate—no use crying over spilled ale."
Cardin's glare was sharp enough to cut steel. "You're joking, right?" He set his tankard down with a heavy thud. "You lost your betrothed, your own parents kicked you out like yesterday's trash and disinherited you, and you think Gryffindor deserves a pass?"
The boy met his gaze without flinching. "I didn't say that, Cardin," he replied, "but let's not act like we didn't bring this on ourselves. We made our choices. And now we're paying the price." He took another sip from his pint, the bitterness lingering on his tongue. "Rules and consequences. Isn't that the code for which we live by?"
Cardin scoffed, swirling the dregs of his ale before slamming the tankard down. "So what if we decided to ride that slave's tail? She's just a filthy little pelt," he spat. "And besides, she had no business flaunting a body like that—strutting around, shaking that cottontail like she owned the place." His lip curled in disgust. "She was asking for it."
His hand waved dismissively. "Sides, it wasn't the first time we've played pass the pelt amongst us, and only now do they suddenly decide it's 'unacceptable'?" he said with bitter sarcasm. "None of this would have happened if Creedy was still in charge. That bastard Anton should have stayed in his damned lane."
"Regardless," the boy said evenly, "Creedy's out, and Anton's the new Caretaker." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "And you heard him in Headmaster Blaise's office. He's got a zero-tolerance policy for students who abuse his slaves. Even more so for what we did."
Cardin shook his head. "Well, you do what you want. But if I ever see that piece of filth again, both Gryffindor and Buffer, there'll be hell to pay." His fingers tightened around the handle of his mug. "And this time, I'll make sure to finish what Volg Dryfus couldn't."
"Curse and swear all you like, but last I checked, vengeance doesn't pay the bills." The boy chuckled dryly, swirling the amber liquid in his tankard. "Listen, we may have been expelled, but we haven't been declared Excommunicado. We're still part of The Congregation. Our winnings still count, and there are plenty of people out there willing to pay for a few good wands and blades."
Cardin raised an eyebrow. "You're saying we should just… become mercenaries?"
"Unless you've got a better plan." The boy gestured to the others seated around the table, their eyes gleaming with renewed interest. "We stick together. We rebuild. The Midnighters are only finished if you decide they are."
Cardin scanned their faces, men who had fought beside him, who had lost everything alongside him. Their futures were uncertain, but one thing was clear: they weren't done yet.
A slow grin crept onto his face. He lifted his pint, tilting it toward the others. "To the Midnighters," he said. "We're done… only when we say we're done."
The others clinked their tankards together, the sound ringing out like a promise. One of the barmaids approached their table, balancing a tray laden with freshly poured ale. Her long blonde hair was neatly tied back with a sash, and she wore a simple white apron over a brown dress, the fabric slightly worn from long hours of work. She appeared to be around their age, but there was a quiet confidence in her posture, the ease of someone used to navigating a room full of rowdy patrons.
"Here you are, boys—another round," she said with a practiced smile, her blue eyes warm and inviting as she set the tankards down in front of them one by one. "Enjoy. Give me a call if you need anything else."
With a polite nod, she turned to leave, but before she could take a step, a hand shot out and caught her wrist, his fingers tightening like a vice.
"Whoa, whoa, not so fast, doll." Cardin smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with something dark. "What's the rush? How about you stay and keep us company?" he asked, the stench of ale heavy on his breath. "Me and my boys have been having a really bad week, and we could use some… fun, if you catch my drift."
Her blue eyes widened in alarm as she tried to yank herself free. "I'm sorry, sir, but I need to get back to work," she said.
Cardin's grip only tightened. "Come on, the bar can run just fine without you," he purred, pulling her closer, his fingers now pressing against her skin hard enough to bruise. "How about we head upstairs? Get to know each other a little better?"
"I said, let go!" she snapped as she raised her free hand and slapped him hard across the face. The sound cracked through the tavern like a whip, and for a brief moment, everything seemed to stand still.
Cardin's head snapped to the side, his cheek reddening with the imprint of her palm. The room seemed to hold its breath. Then his expression darkened. His teeth bared in a snarl.
"You little bitch!"
Before anyone could react, his hand swung back, backhanding her across the face with a sharp crack. She cried out as she crumpled to the floor, clutching her cheek, her eyes watering from the pain.
The entire tavern fell into dead silence.
Every pair of eyes turned to the scene. The warmth of laughter and conversation had been replaced by cold, seething fury. Some patrons were already half-rising from their chairs, hands resting on hilts, fingers twitching toward wands. A few of the larger men at the bar had turned fully, their faces set in deep frowns.
Cardin glanced around, chest heaving, still riding the high of his anger. His glare swept across the room, daring someone to challenge him. His fingers flexed before reaching for the heavy iron mace leaning against the table. He wrenched it free, brandishing it with a wicked grin.
"What?" he spat, eyes darting between the men standing across the tavern. "You got something to say? You want a piece of me?" He slammed the mace down onto the table, causing plates and mugs to jump. His friends followed suit, standing, weapons and wands drawn, their expressions cocky and defiant.
"You want to mess with The Midnighters?" Cardin roared, lifting the mace in both hands. "Then come and get some!"
The challenge hung in the air.
One by one, the patrons who had half-risen began settling back into their seats, their hands hesitating over their tankards, their shoulders tight with frustration. Some exchanged glances, clearly weighing their options, but none seemed willing to risk a full-blown brawl over a barmaid—not when the ones causing trouble were young, drunk, and itching for a fight. Their eyes, however, remained sharp with anger, their silence laced with unspoken threats.
To Cardin, however, it spelled victory.
"That's right," he sneered, his smirk twisting into something cruel. "Sit your bitch asses down before I lay every single one of you out myself."
His fingers flexed around the handle of his mace before his gaze flicked back down to the barmaid still sprawled on the floor, her wide blue eyes filled with terror.
"Looks like no one's coming to save you, doll." He crouched down slightly. "So why don't you be a good girl and do as you're told—"
Then, the sharp scrape of a chair echoed through the tavern.
A figure rose from the bar.
The group turned in unison, their eyes locking onto the young man who had pulled himself to his feet. He was draped in a black cloak that pooled around him like a shifting shadow, swallowing the dim light that flickered from the lanterns. The way he moved—deliberate, fluid—sent an uneasy ripple through the room.
Then the light caught his face, just enough to send a chill racing down their spines.
His skin was pale, unnaturally so, as if it had been drained of warmth and left in a state of permanent dusk. The sharp lines of his features were half-obscured by the hood he wore, but what little they could see was enough. His armor was neither gaudy nor cumbersome; light yet fortified—shoulder plates of darkened metal reinforced a torso wrapped in blackened leather, lined with silver bracers that glinted under the lantern glow. But it wasn't just his presence that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand. It was something far worse.
The air around him felt thick, smoldering—not with heat, but with something unseen, something that lingered at the edges of their senses. The faintest scent of soot and burning clung to him, subtle but unmistakable, as though he had walked straight out of the heart of a battlefield, embers still clinging to his form.
A slow, suffocating silence settled over the tavern.
And then, he spoke.
"Did you just say… Midnighters?" He let the word hang in the air for a moment. "Now that's a name I haven't heard in a very, very long time."
Cardin scoffed, though there was an edge of unease in his posture. "Yeah? What's it to you, punk?" He hefted his mace and pointed it at the cloaked man. "Sit back down and go back to your drink before—"
"You what?" the stranger cut in. "Hit me with your diaper?"
A few chuckles rippled through the tavern, some hesitant, others bold. The tension had shifted, ever so slightly.
The stranger shook his head slowly. "You're a damned child," he said, gaze boring into Cardin. "Running that childish mouth when you should have kept your tongue behind your teeth… and your hands to yourself." He exhaled; his expression unreadable. "To think that the Midnighters have fallen this far."
Cardin's face turned red, his grip tightening around his mace. "The hell did you just say?" he snarled.
The stranger didn't answer. He simply stared, the weight of his gaze pressing down like an invisible force.
Cardin twirled his mace, trying to shake off the creeping sense of dread. "You know what? I've been itching all day to break someone's face in." He sneered, stepping forward. "Guess you'll have to do. That'll teach these worthless mongrels their place."
Cardin barely had time to register what had happened. One moment, he was mid-charge, mace raised, his breath sharp with rage. The next, the stranger was gone—a wisp of blackened smoke swirling where he had stood, cinders flickering like dying embers. Before Cardin could react, an icy shiver crawled up his spine. A terrible weight settled behind him.
Then—agony.
His scream tore through the tavern as his arm was severed at the elbow. The limb hit the floor with a dull thud, his still-clenched mace rolling from his lifeless fingers. Blood splattered across the wooden planks, pooling beneath him as he collapsed to his knees, clutching the stump with his remaining hand. His breath came in ragged gasps, his face twisted in uncomprehending horror.
His friends stood frozen, their expressions drained of color, their eyes wide with pure, undiluted terror.
The stranger barely spared him a glance. Instead, he lifted his gaze to the crowd of onlookers still lingering in stunned silence.
"Anyone who doesn't want to end up dead," his voice was calm, measured, but laced with something far more dangerous than fury—absolute certainty. "I suggest you clear out. Now."
He twirled the massive, blackened claymore in his wrist, its surface gleaming ominously beneath the flickering lantern light.
Panic erupted.
Chairs scraped against the floorboards as the entire tavern erupted into motion. Patrons stumbled over each other in their desperate rush to escape, knocking over tables, spilling drinks, pushing past one another to reach the exit. Even the staff—the bartenders, the barmaids, the cooks—all of them fled, abandoning their posts without a second thought.
The stranger paid them no mind. Instead, he turned, his steps slow and deliberate, toward the barmaid still sprawled on the floor. He extended a gloved hand.
She trembled, her blue eyes brimming with fear, but after a brief hesitation, she took it.
He helped her to her feet, steadying her. His grip was firm but careful, a stark contrast to the violence that had just unfolded.
"Leave," he said. "And don't look back."
The girl swallowed hard, nodding frantically. "T-thank you," she whispered, then turned and bolted for the entrance, disappearing into the crowd of fleeing bodies.
The tavern grew eerily still.
The only sounds that remained were Cardin's ragged sobs, the drip-drip of blood pooling at his feet, and the steady, unwavering breath of the man who had just undone him with a single stroke of his blade.
The stranger turned his gaze to the remaining Midnighters, his grip on the claymore relaxed, almost casual. The smirk on his pale lips was anything but amused.
"So." He tilted his head slightly, the blackened steel of his sword gleaming under the dim tavern lights. "Are we just going to stand here like a bunch of frightened schoolboys?" He lifted the blade, leveling it at them. "Or are we going to fight?"
The hesitation in their eyes was brief, but it was there. A flicker of doubt. A primal instinct warning them to run.
Then—rage took hold.
One of the boys snarled. "Get him!"
With a roar, they charged.
****
The boy's scream died in a sickening gurgle as his severed head tumbled through the air, landing with a dull thud on the nearest table before rolling off, leaving a crimson trail in its wake. The wooden floor was slick with blood, the tavern reeking of copper and charred flesh. Cardin's breath hitched, his body frozen, paralyzed by the sheer carnage around him. His friends—his so-called brothers—were nothing more than dismembered corpses strewn across the room, their bodies twisted, lifeless.
His wide, terror-stricken eyes lifted to the figure standing in the middle of the massacre, blackened steel still dripping with fresh blood. The man exhaled, his breath steady, unshaken, as if this was nothing more than routine.
Cardin's voice broke, barely escaping his trembling lips. "Who… who are you?"
The stranger tilted his head slightly, regarding him with something unreadable. Then, slowly, he reached up, pulling back the hood that shrouded his face. His amber eyes burned with something ancient, something unrelenting. The crystal lights overhead played tricks, making it seem as though his irises carried the embers of a dying fire.
"Isn't that rich?" the stranger murmured, flicking the blood from his blade in a slow, deliberate motion. "You wear the crest, but you don't even know who I am."
He stepped forward, his boots pressing into the blood-soaked wood.
"There was a time," he continued, each word heavy with something unspoken, "when the Midnighters stood for something. Strength. Honor. Justice." He paused. "Back when I led them."
The world around Cardin seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in. His lungs tightened, his throat closing around the name that clawed its way out. "A-Asriel Valerian…"
The stranger—no, Asriel—offered no confirmation, only a slow, knowing stare.
"By the Gods," he said. "The rumors were true."
Asriel's gaze bore into Cardin, cold and unwavering. "You know, you weren't even on my list," he muttered, almost indifferent. "I have more important things to do than stain my blade with the blood of arrogant little boys." He exhaled, shaking his head. "In fact, I shouldn't even be here. But then you and your little friends had to run your damned mouths, and—"
A whisper curled through the air, something unseen yet tangible. Asriel's grip on his sword tightened, his gaze dropping to the blackened steel. The veins that ran along the blade pulsed, like a heartbeat made of fire. His amber eyes darkened.
"Oh," he murmured, almost amused. "You've been a real piece of work, haven't you… Cardin Winchester?"
Cardin trembled, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The blood pooling beneath him felt ice-cold. "H-how…" his voice broke. "How do you know my name?"
Asriel lifted his gaze, meeting Cardin's own. "I hear the whispers of sinners," he said. "Their crimes… their victims." His fingers flexed around the hilt of his blade. "And you… you've been very, very loud."
Cardin's mouth opened, but no words came. His stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing at his throat.
"What you and your friends did to that girl," Asriel continued. "What you were about to do to the other one." He tilted his head. "And all while wearing my colors."
The last words left his lips in a near growl, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to strike him down then and there.
He raised his blade, pointing it directly at Cardin. "Take it off."
Cardin's lips trembled. "W-what?"
"The jacket," Asriel repeated. "Strip it off now." His words carried the weight of inevitability. "You can take it off yourself, or I can rip it off your cold, dead corpse. Your choice."
His remaining hand shook as Cardin fumbled with the buttons of his coat, slipping it off his shoulders before hesitantly holding it out. Asriel snatched it, lifting it, his eyes settling on the embroidered emblem of the Midnighters gleaming beneath the dim light. His jaw tensed.
"Alright, I gave you what you wanted," Cardin muttered. "You made your point."
Asriel's grip on the fabric tightened. "Not so fast," he murmured. "You robbed that girl of something she can never reclaim. You broke her. Left her with scars she'll carry for the rest of her life." His amber gaze bore into Cardin, cold and unrelenting. "And now, you think you just get to walk away?"
Cardin's fear curdled into something twisted—defensive, desperate. His lips curled, a last attempt at defiance. "What then?" he spat, forcing himself to glare. "You want your pound of flesh? You think you're the damned law?"
His sneer deepened, latching onto arrogance like a dying man grasping at straws. "You can't have me arrested. Even if they did, she's just a filthy little slave. A pelt. I'd be out in a couple of months at most."
He smirked, as if he had just played his winning hand.
Asriel tilted his head slightly, a whisper of something almost amused—almost pitying—crossing his face.
Then, with a chilling softness, he spoke.
"Arrested?"
A breath of silence stretched between them.
"Criminals get arrested, Winchester," Asriel continued. "Thieves. Swindlers. The corrupt. People who still have the privilege of justice." His amber eyes burned, their light swallowing every shadow in the room. "Animals, though?"
"They get put down."
Before Cardin could even process it, the black blade flashed.
A single, clean stroke.
His smirk never had the chance to fall before his head separated from his shoulders.
The body staggered for half a second, then crumpled lifelessly onto the blood-slicked floor. The severed head tumbled, rolling to a stop in a growing pool of crimson, its last expression frozen in a grotesque mix of shock and arrogance.
Asriel let out a slow breath, then turned his gaze to the jacket still clenched in his fist. The emblem of the Midnighters gleamed under the dim light, once a mark of strength, now nothing more than a mockery. His fingers curled tighter around the fabric, something flickering across his face—regret, fury, something hollow and unspoken. The fabric ignited, flames licking up the insignia, devouring it in seconds. He dropped it to the floor, watching in silence as it curled and blackened, reduced to nothing but smoldering ash.
Without another glance at the carnage left behind, Asriel turned on his heel, stepping toward the exit.
In a final swirl of smoke and embers—he was gone.