The familiar scent of spring drifted through the stone corridors of Excalibur Academy, bringing with it the crisp freshness of new leaves, the dampness of dew-kissed grass, and the earthy richness of soil. For most, it was a welcome reminder of renewal and the promise of warmer days ahead. For Salazar, however, it was a seasonal curse, one that transformed his usually composed demeanor into a constant state of irritation, thanks to allergies that seemed to intensify with each passing day.
The bell tolled, marking the end of lunch and the transition into the next period. For some students, it meant a free hour to catch up on assignments, while for others, it was merely another class to endure.
For Godric, Rowena, and Helga, it meant their first session of Mundane Studies.
Rowena, ever the scholar, saw it as an opportunity to add to her academic portfolio. Helga, raised alongside mundanes, was intrigued by the prospect of understanding their world in greater depth. Godric, on the other hand, was only mildly interested in the subject itself. His real curiosity lay in the man teaching it—Professor Ryan Ashford, otherwise known as Mister Nobody. A self-proclaimed mage hunter from a world beyond their own, carrying a weapon unlike anything Excalibur had ever seen.
The classroom was noticeably smaller than their other lecture halls, and the number of students reflected that. Godric scanned the room as they entered, noting that only a fraction of the student body had enrolled. It wasn't surprising. Most wizards had little interest in mundane life, choosing to remain wilfully ignorant of everything from their customs to their technology.
Taking their seats near the front, Helga all but bounced in excitement as she grinned. "I cannot wait to see what this class is all about!" she said, practically vibrating in her chair. "I wonder if Professor Ashford will let slip some info about his world."
Rowena was already setting up her scrolls and ink well, her expression skeptical. "Highly unlikely," she remarked. "Vagabonds are bound by the Signum—a magical brand that prevents them from revealing information about their home worlds. The magic is absolute. Any attempt to speak of their time or place of origin results in complete silence."
Helga frowned. "That seems a bit extreme, doesn't it?"
"It's a security measure," Rowena explained. "Though there are ways around it. They can speak in vague terms, offering descriptions rather than direct knowledge. Enough to pique curiosity, but never enough to grant true understanding."
"So, they can tell us about things, just not in a way that gives the full picture?"
"Precisely."
Rowena's gaze flickered past Godric to the empty seat beside him. She let out an unimpressed sigh. "And of course, Salazar isn't here. Typical."
Godric raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Rowena dipped her quill in the ink well, her expression unwavering. "I've already expected as much, considering Salazar's certain disdain for mundanes. He thinks he's subtle about it, but everyone knows."
"That's a bold assumption," Godric countered. "He dislikes Transfigurations just as much."
Rowena gave him a pointed look. "Trust me, Godric, Salazar gets… testy when it comes to mundanes and mundane-borns." She paused, weighing her next words. "I wouldn't go so far as to call him prejudiced, but he holds certain beliefs—beliefs that sometimes slip through when he's not careful."
Godric's frown deepened. "What kind of beliefs?"
Rowena hesitated before answering. "To put it lightly, he believes that mundanes and mundane-borns cannot be trusted. That they're a savage people who would use power for their own ill-gained purposes. Magic included. And because of that, he considers them… unworthy of it."
Godric's crimson eyes narrowed slightly. "But I'm mundane-born," he pointed out. "And I've never seen that side of Salazar before. He's never treated me unfairly."
Rowena gave a small, knowing smile. "I've known Salazar a lot longer than you, Godric," she said, returning her attention to her parchment. "He's my friend, just as you are. But there are sides to each of us that we don't always show to our friends—or the world."
She sighed, her quill scratching softly against the parchment. "And I think, one way or another, you're going to see that for yourself."
"I hate to say it, but Row's got a point, Godric," Helga chimed in. "We're his friends, so I doubt Sal would ever hold those beliefs against us—especially you. But to others?" She sighed, shaking her head. "That's a different story."
Godric scoffed, leaning back in his chair as his crimson gaze flickered toward the front of the classroom. "Well, mundane-born or not, I'd argue that there are plenty of people unworthy of magic." His expression darkened, fingers tapping idly against his desk. "And most of them are right here in this Academy."
"Um, excuse me." A familiar voice piped up beside Godric, prompting him, Rowena, and Helga to turn. Jeanne stood there, her expression tinged with hesitance, pointing to the empty seat next to him. "Is this seat taken?" she asked.
Godric rolled his eyes. "Knock yourself out."
Jeanne blinked, visibly confused by the phrase.
"He means go ahead," Helga clarified with an amused smile before leaning past Rowena. "Don't mind him. He might look like an angry oil slick, but he's mostly harmless."
"Just don't, you know, light the fire," Rowena added, her own smile softer but no less teasing.
"Oh, right," Jeanne chuckled nervously before settling into the seat beside him.
She had barely opened her mouth to speak when the classroom door swung open, and Professor Ryan strode in. Unlike the other professors, who favored robes of various cuts and colors, he was clad in the same black three-piece suit he had worn that night in the alley. Godric's crimson eyes followed him warily as he made his way to the front of the classroom, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an unseen weight.
"Afternoon, class. Hope everyone's nice and stuffed after lunch," Professor Ryan greeted. "Honestly, the food here could use some improvement. What I wouldn't give for a hot dog and a taco in this godforsaken place."
Helga furrowed her brows, tilting her head. "A hot dog?" she echoed. "A taco?"
Professor Ryan sighed, dragging a hand down his face like a man deeply regretting his life choices. "Right. I keep forgetting you lot are practically medieval."
With a shake of his head, he turned to the blackboard, shrugging off his blazer and hanging it on the nearby rack before rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His movements were fluid, practiced, like a man used to working with his hands—though what kind of work, exactly, was anyone's guess.
"Alright," he said, picking up a piece of chalk between his fingers. "Let's get started before I die from cultural despair."
Professor Ryan turned on his heel, raising the chalk to the blackboard. With quick, precise strokes, he scrawled out his name in bold letters before underlining it with a sharp flick of his wrist.
"For those of you who weren't paying attention at roll call, I'm Professor Ryan Ashford, your Mundane Studies teacher." He tossed the chalk onto the desk behind him, dusting his hands off. "I like candlelight dinners and long walks on the beach."
Helga's eyes widened, a delighted smile creeping onto her face. "Oh, really?" she asked, clearly intrigued.
"No," he deadpanned. "Lesson one of Mug—" He paused, rolling his eyes. "—Mundane Studies. Don't believe every bit of bullcrap that comes out of someone's mouth. Process, assess, and progress. Otherwise, congratulations, you're prime material for getting conned out of your life savings."
The amusement in the room was palpable. Rowena let out a small sigh, and Helga bit back a chuckle.
"Moving on," Ryan continued, pacing in front of the desks. "Here's a fact: I'm what you lot call a—" He caught himself, clicking his tongue. "Almost said Squib. Forgot, different lingo. Pasquil. Any of you bright sparks wanna tell me what that means?"
Rowena's hand shot up instantly.
Ryan pointed at her with his chalk. "You—the dreary one who looks like she spends her free time reading instead of socializing."
Helga nearly choked trying to hold back her laughter, while Rowena blinked, looking momentarily thrown before she composed herself.
Clearing her throat, she sat up straighter. "A Pasquil is a wizard-born individual with no magical abilities. It's a rare but well-documented phenomenon that affects a small amount of wizard-borns every year. Despite numerous studies, the exact cause remains—"
"Yeah, yeah, thank you, Miss Know-It-All," Ryan interrupted, waving his hand. "I asked for a definition, not the damned Wikipedia page." He exhaled and gestured vaguely toward her with an open palm. "Anyway, ten points to… whatever house you're in."
Rowena turned beet red. Helga struggled to keep a straight face, while Godric, despite himself, felt the corners of his lips twitch.
"Now," Ryan clapped his hands together. "What is Mundane Studies?"
Rowena's hand shot up again.
Ryan gave her a deadpan look. "That was a rhetorical question, Miss No-Social-Life. Hand down."
The class erupted into muffled snickers as Rowena turned an even deeper shade of crimson. Helga had to cover her mouth to keep from bursting out laughing. Godric, for all his effort, let out the smallest amused huff.
Ryan continued pacing at the front of the room, his hands tucked into his pockets, his expression one of barely concealed amusement. "Mundane Studies covers a great deal of subjects," he began.
"Normally, the curriculum would have me stand up here and explain how mundanes manage to live their lives without the wonders of magic, as if you lot are a bunch of sheltered philistines with half a brain."
He cast an exaggerated glance around the room, as if expecting someone to argue. No one did.
"The other half of the curriculum involves me teaching you the subjects that mundanes rely on to make up for their lack of magic. Science, biology, geography—oh, and let's not forget my personal favorite, mathematics."
His tone dipped into mock enthusiasm. "Now, I'll warn you, some of this is going to make your head spin. Some of you will struggle. Some of you will, inevitably, start wondering if cursing your dear old Professor Ashford might solve all your problems." He paused, then shrugged. "News flash—it won't."
There were a few chuckles among the students, though Rowena seemed fully engrossed, already taking notes.
Ryan exhaled, shaking his head. "Honestly, I still believe algebra was invented as a form of torture, but I digress." He turned, chalk in hand, and began writing across the blackboard. "Now, let's start with something simple—who here can tell me what the scientific method is?"
Rowena's hand shot up again.
Ryan groaned. "Of course it's you."
Helga leaned across the table, nudging Godric with her elbow as she whispered. "Sal's going to regret skipping this class. Professor Ashford is an absolute riot." Her grin was wide, eyes alight with amusement.
Godric smirked, shaking his head. "For once, I think you might be right," he admitted.
Jeanne, seated beside him, pressed a hand to her mouth in a failed attempt to stifle her laughter. She cast a glance at the professor, who was now dramatically lamenting the horrors of mundane science as if recounting a great personal tragedy.
"I think I could get used to this class," she murmured, mostly to herself.
****
"Now, once upon a time, it wasn't uncommon for human civilization to mistake science for magic—or the other way around," Professor Ryan said, leaning lazily against his desk, a red ball rolling idly between his fingers.
"In fact, mundanes found it much easier to outright dismiss science entirely, hiding behind small-brained words that perpetuate stupidity like 'heresy' or 'blasphemy.'" He rolled his eyes. "And believe me, if I had a dollar for every time some child-diddler from the Vatican threw that around, I'd be—"
"Professor Ashford?"
Helga's hand shot up, catching both Rowena and Godric off guard.
Ryan straightened slightly, his brow lifting. "Yes, Miss-I-Had-Too-Much-Coffee-This-Morning?"
Helga ignored the jab, leaning forward with curiosity. "What's it like?" she asked. "Where you're from, I mean. No specifics, of course."
Ryan chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, long story short? The world has come a long way from where we are now," he said. "Both Mundanes and Wizarding folk go on to accomplish great things. I'd even dare say, in some ways, it's a lot like Avalon—give or take."
His expression darkened, the light humor fading into something more somber. "But where there's light, there are always shadows. As much as we like to believe that people grow and change, that we can be better, that we have to be better… there will always be those who believe some deserve to stand above while others exist only to serve."
The classroom grew quiet, the weight of his words sinking in.
Ryan crossed his arms. "Just know this, Miss Hufflepuff. While I can't spill the details about my world or my time, history has proven one undeniable truth." His gaze swept the room. "Some of the most horrifying acts ever committed were done with the best intentions. And some of the greatest achievements were forged in times of true darkness."
Ryan stepped forward, rolling the ball in his palm before clasping it tightly. "And believe me when I say, I've stared into the abyss long enough to know what evils lurk in the hearts of men. It doesn't matter if you're Mundane or part of the Wizarding World."
His gaze swept over his students, sharp and unwavering. "A wise prince once said, man was created with a hole in his heart—one that no possession, power, or knowledge could ever fill. And in our infinite greed, we dreamed of only one thing, and one thing only—dominion."
A hush settled over the classroom, the weight of his words pressing down like a storm cloud.
Then, a voice broke the silence.
"But…" Jeanne hesitated before speaking up, drawing the room's attention. Her sapphire eyes widened slightly under the scrutiny, but she held her ground. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."
Ryan gestured for her to continue. "No, please. Go on."
Jeanne swallowed before continuing. "I… I disagree with you on that, Professor Ryan." She sat up straighter, her hands clasped on the desk. "We may be flawed, but we are not irredeemable. It is our faith in God—our belief that He guides us on the right path—that keeps us from falling into darkness. Yes, humanity is capable of great tragedy… but we are also capable of great virtue."
Ryan stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he muttered under his breath, "Ah, you're one of those types. Oh boy, are you in for a nasty surprise."
Jeanne blinked, tilting her head. "Pardon?"
"Nothing," Ryan said quickly, waving a dismissive hand. "Listen, let's not turn this into a theological debate, alright? I've had my fair share of those, and believe me, we'd be here all day." He turned back to the blackboard, muttering, "And I'm pretty sure I'd end up crawling into a bottle of Jack by the end of it."
Godric raised a hand, drawing Ryan's attention. "Professor?"
Ryan arched a brow, already smirking. "Yes, Ser Angry-Oil-Slick?" he quipped.
Helga barely stifled a snort, while Rowena let out a slow, suffering sigh, rubbing her temples as though nursing an oncoming headache.
"What made you decide to come to Avalon? To Excalibur Academy?" Godric paused, his gaze narrowing.
Ryan arms crossed loosely over his chest as he regarded Godric with mild amusement. "Well, Mister Gryffindor," he drawled, "that's a hell of a question."
Godric remained unfazed; his crimson gaze steady. "You said you came from a time far beyond our own," he continued, "so why would you leave it all behind?"
Ryan's smirk faded slightly, and for the first time since class had started, he seemed to hesitate. His fingers drifted unconsciously to the golden ring on his right hand, tracing over the band in slow, absent circles. The pause stretched just long enough for the students to notice, though before anyone could pry, he exhaled a quiet chuckle and shook his head.
"Let's just say I needed a change of scenery," he said at last. "And believe me, a part of me always wondered what it'd be like to be part of a magic school. Can't exactly be a student of a wizarding academy if you can't do magic." He glanced around the room, but there was something guarded beneath it.
He shrugged. "Besides, I won't lie—I find an odd sense of satisfaction rubbing mundane knowledge in the faces of willfully ignorant wizards." His lips twitched into a smirk as he surveyed the classroom. "And blowing the minds of those eager to learn."
His gaze flicked to Rowena, who was furiously scribbling down notes, utterly engrossed in recording every word he spoke. He rolled his eyes. "Case in point."
Rowena, without missing a beat, muttered, "I heard that."
Ryan smirked. "Good." Then he pushed off the desk, clapping his hands once. "Point is, the world is vast and ever-evolving, and it's high time wizards stopped acting like they were the only ones with something to offer. There's so much we can learn from mundanes, just as they have much they can learn from us."
His gaze swept across the room before settling back on Godric. "So, if I can be the bridge between the two? Then that's exactly what I'll do."
The deep chime of the clock tower signaled the end of class, and the students began rising from their seats, stretching and gathering their belongings.
"Since this is your first lesson with me," Professor Ryan called out, slipping his blazer back on, "your homework for the week is to read the first chapter of your science and math books." He straightened his cuffs before casting a pointed look around the room.
"And if any of you have questions, feel free to drop by my office—but for God's sake, don't go flipping to the later chapters and trying out any of the experiments. Last thing I need is Captain Soviet showing up at my doorstep whining about missing ingredients and supplies."
Godric, Jeanne, Helga, and Rowena stood from their seats, slinging their bags over their shoulders as they made their way toward the door. Godric cast one last glance over his shoulder at Professor Ryan, his expression unreadable but tinged with quiet suspicion. There was something about him—something just beneath the surface that didn't sit right. He had seen that look before, in another man who had spent his life dealing in shadows. The same gaze he had seen in Professor Serfence, a former Executioner of the Clock Tower.
Still, he let the thought rest, for now.
"By the way, what's a Soviet?" Helga asked as she walked beside Rowena.
Rowena sighed, rolling her eyes. "I haven't a clue."
****
Godric and the three girls moved through the bustling corridor, the flow of students weaving around them as they made their way toward the Great Hall. The golden light of the setting sun streamed through the paned windows, casting long shadows across the ancient stone floors. For most, the evening marked the end of a long day, a time to unwind, to share laughter over dinner, to push aside the weight of lessons and responsibilities.
For Godric, it was something else entirely.
Another day. Another night. Another battle waiting in The Congregation.
The ambient chatter and fleeting smiles of passing students barely registered. They were nothing more than noise, a distant hum drowned out by the familiar pull in his chest—a call to the arena, to steel and sweat and the temporary relief of exhaustion. The only thing that truly kept the darkness at bay, if only for a little while.
The weight of the snowflake locket pressed against his chest, a cold and constant reminder. His sword, secured across his back, another. They were anchors, tethering him to what was lost, to what he refused to let go. The moments of reprieve were brief, fragile things. A chuckle shared between friends, a passing joke—small embers in the storm that threatened to consume him the second he was left alone with his thoughts.
His crimson eyes narrowed, dark rings beneath them betraying another night spent without sleep. The ghosts that haunted his dreams had no mercy, nor did the waking hours where grief wrapped its claws around his ribs and squeezed. But he was done crying. Done weeping.
If there were still fools in The Congregation eager to test his blade, then he would give them exactly what they were asking for. And he wouldn't stop. Not until the fire inside him burned itself out completely.
Jeanne, walking beside Godric, caught the sudden shift in his expression. The distant, hardened look that settled over his face sent a ripple of unease through her. She hesitated, biting her bottom lip, debating whether or not to say something. But just as she parted her lips to speak, Godric came to an abrupt halt.
Without a word, he backed up, pressing his back against the wall. Rowena and Helga, who had been mid-conversation, nearly bumped into him, their brows furrowing in confusion.
"Godric, what's—" Rowena started, but he lifted a hand, silencing her before gesturing for all of them to move closer.
Helga's eyes lit up with curiosity. "Ooh, is this what they call a stakeout?" she whispered, grinning. "What's got your attention, Godric?"
All four of them edged forward just enough to peer around the corner.
At the far end of the corridor, standing just outside the Headmaster's office, was Headmaster Blaise Windsor himself, engaged in conversation with two men they didn't recognize. Both were older, perhaps around Blaise's age, their hair streaked with silver and their faces lined with years of experience. Their robes were immaculate, woven from the finest materials—one dressed in a sleek, smoky grey overcoat, the other in traditional black wizarding robes embroidered with subtle sigils of authority.
Rowena's eyes widened, recognition dawning on her face.
"Uncle Lamar?" she whispered in disbelief. Her gaze then flicked to the other man, her brows knitting together. "And… isn't that—?"
"The Sheriff of Caerleon!" Helga whispered excitedly. "You see his face on the screens all over town."
Godric's eyes narrowed as he watched the exchange. The presence of two men of such stature wasn't unusual in Excalibur Academy—but the way they spoke, the quiet urgency in their voices, the way Headmaster Blaise's usually composed expression was now weighted with something else—it meant something was going on. Something important.
Something he had a feeling they weren't meant to overhear.
****
"It is indeed a most tragic affair, Sheriff Hartshorne," Headmaster Blaise said, removing his glasses with a measured sigh. He examined them in his hand for a moment before continuing. "But I can assure you, the last I saw of Mister Winchester and his friends was during their expulsion."
"I have no reason to doubt your word, Headmaster," Sheriff Hartshorne replied, his sharp green eyes studying the man before him. "But we must eliminate all possibilities before drawing any firm conclusions."
"Still, expulsion?" the other man, Lamar, finally spoke with an air of casual indifference. "Rather harsh, don't you think? After all, boys will be boys, and slaves will be slaves."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Blaise's face, but he remained composed. "I regret to say that I placed my trust in individuals I once deemed worthy of it," he said, wiping his glasses with the hem of his robe before slipping them back on. "I allowed personal sentiment to cloud my better judgment, and many have suffered for it. That is a mistake I do not intend to repeat."
Lamar nodded, though there was little true sympathy in his expression. "Yes, the incident with Mister Creedy… To think you'd know a man. Well, from what I hear, he has received his just rewards."
"I knew Peter Creedy from his student days," Sheriff Hartshorne scoffed, shaking his head. "Always had the makings of a bad apple. Turns out I wasn't wrong."
Blaise exhaled, his expression remaining unreadable. "Not a fate I would have wished upon him, but consequences must be met. And given the pain he inflicted upon others, I'd say it was well deserved."
"Back to Mister Winchester," Lamar said, steering the conversation back on course. "From what we've gathered, the lad was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"The scene was an absolute bloodbath, to put it mildly," Sheriff Hartshorne muttered. "Whoever was responsible spared no one. That being said… it bears an uncanny resemblance to the other incidents we've encountered these past few weeks."
Blaise's brow lifted slightly. "Are you implying what I think you are?"
"Rubbish!" Lamar scoffed, waving a dismissive hand.
"Cardin Winchester led the Midnighters," Hartshorne pressed on, his expression unreadable. "And our person of interest was the one who founded the Midnighters. You cannot deny the coincidence."
Lamar let out an exasperated sigh. "Please, George, you're the Sheriff of Caerleon. Such crude speculations are above a man of your station," he said.
"This so-called person of interest is little more than a myth—a fairy tale spun from old whispers and exaggerated rumors. And the so-called weapon he wields? Equally fictitious. This is the work of insurgents, nothing more."
Blaise fingers steepled, his gaze unflinching. "I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss the possibility, Lamar," he said coolly. "We've been around long enough to know that not everything is as it seems."
"Please, the Sword of Damocles?" Lamar scoffed, shaking his head. "Ever the dreamer, Blaise. Speculation is one thing, but allowing it to spiral into outright fantasy? That is unbecoming of men in our position."
Blaise arched a brow, an almost teasing glint in his gaze. "So, are you saying that the very notion of such an individual is, in your esteemed opinion, utterly preposterous?"
"Precisely," Lamar said. "I've held my post for nearly twenty years. I have faced and dismantled every tangible threat to Avalon—terrorists, insurgents, organized crime syndicates, separatist movements, rogue factions. You name it, I've dealt with it." His expression hardened.
"And I can tell you now, our time and resources would be better spent chasing down real threats rather than entertaining ghost stories and campfire legends."
"And yet," Blaise countered smoothly, adjusting his glasses, "these so-called legends have allegedly been responsible for the systematic eradication of your Clock Tower personnel." His gaze settled on Lamar, sharp and measured. "A word of advice, my friend—denial leads to inaction. And in your complacency, you may find that by the time you choose to act, it will already be too late."
Lamar's lips pressed into a firm line, but before he could argue, Hartshorne spoke up.
"Blaise is right," the sheriff said, folding his arms. "For all the forces we have stationed in Caerleon, if these rumors hold any truth—" he glanced at Lamar, who narrowed his eyes, "if they hold truth, then we need to be prepared. Bolstering our defenses may not be optional."
Lamar exhaled sharply, clearly unimpressed. "Oh, for the Gods sake—"
Hartshorne didn't let him finish. "And we may not be able to guarantee your safety."
That gave Lamar pause. He scoffed, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the warning. "Fine. Do what you must," he said. "But I stand by what I said—it's all a bunch of needless fuss over a handful of glorified criminals. When we do catch them, rest assured, I'll make certain they pay dearly for their crimes."
Headmaster Blaise regarded him for a long moment before offering a small, knowing smile. "To that, Lamar," he said lightly, "I have no doubt."