The four of them exchanged glances, though Jeanne's confusion was evident as she looked between them. Godric, Rowena, and Helga, however, felt an unmistakable chill creep down their spines, their expressions tightening with the weight of what they had just overheard.
"Cardin's… dead?" Helga murmured.
"I knew he was expelled for what he did to Shana, but…" Rowena trailed off, gripping the books in her arms a little tighter, as if holding them any looser might make them slip from her grasp. "I didn't expect..."
Godric remained silent. His crimson eyes, unreadable, bore no sympathy, no sorrow—just a quiet, detached acceptance. He had neither the capacity nor the inclination to grieve for Cardin or the Midnighters. Not after what they had done. There was no satisfaction, no anger—just a strange, empty sort of numbness. But it wasn't the boy's fate that held his focus. It was the name they had spoken. The Sword of Damocles. And, more precisely, the man who wielded it.
"I'm sorry, but… who's Cardin?" Jeanne asked, her gaze darting between them. "What did he do?"
Helga inhaled sharply before gripping Jeanne's sleeve. "I'll tell you later," she whispered. "It's not something we speak about in the open."
"They mentioned the Sword," Godric said suddenly as he turned to Helga and Rowena. "That could only mean—"
Rowena gave a tight nod. "Asriel… he's here in Caerleon."
Helga's amber eyes widened. "Do you think he was the one who—?" She hesitated, glancing back toward where the three men stood conversing. "You know… with Cardin?"
Godric scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. "I wouldn't be surprised if he did."
"If you're trying to be inconspicuous, you're doing a terrible job," Headmaster Blaise's voice carried effortlessly across the hallway, making all four of them freeze in place. "Eavesdropping is most unbecoming, you know."
They cringed in unison before reluctantly stepping out from behind the corner. As they approached, the eyes of the three older men settled on them, each measuring the students with varying degrees of interest.
Lamar's gaze softened the moment he spotted Rowena. A warm smile crossed his face as he stepped forward, arms outstretched. "Rowena, what a pleasant surprise," he greeted, pulling her into a brief but affectionate hug. "I must say, you grow fairer with every passing day. Time truly does fly. Feels like just yesterday you were bringing me daisy chains at the park."
Rowena smiled in return. "It's wonderful to see you too, Uncle Lamar," she said, hugging him back. "More importantly, I'm glad to see you safe and well."
Lamar chuckled. "Plenty of life in these old bones yet." His expression sobered slightly. "I heard about Bran. You have my word—I'll see to it that the perpetrator is brought to justice and punished to the fullest extent of the law."
"To that, I wholeheartedly agree, Miss Ravenclaw," Sheriff Hartshorne said, giving a polite nod. "We haven't formally met, but I'm George Hartshorne, Sheriff of Caerleon. It is an honor to meet a member of a family held in such high regard within the Clock Tower."
Rowena flushed at the praise. "A pleasure, Sheriff Hartshorne." Then, straightening, she turned to her companions. "Oh, allow me to introduce my friends—Helga, Godric, and Jeanne."
Helga gave a cheerful wave. "Howdy! Helga Hufflepuff."
Jeanne bowed politely. "I am Jeanne D'Arc."
At her introduction, Hartshorne's brow lifted. "D'Arc?" he repeated, scrutinizing her with newfound interest. "Any relation to the D'Arc family?"
Jeanne blinked in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"
Hartshorne studied her for a moment longer before shaking his head. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."
"Godric Gryffindor," Godric introduced himself flatly.
Both Lamar and Hartshorne raised their eyebrows in recognition.
"So you're Gryffindor," Lamar said, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "You've made quite the name for yourself. I, too, am an Excalibur alumnus and very familiar with our… extracurricular activities."
He extended a hand. "It is a pleasure to meet such a talented young man. I believe you could have a bright future in the Clock Tower—should you ever choose to walk that path."
"So I've heard," Godric said coolly, his expression unreadable as he took Lamar's hand in a firm shake. "Pleasure."
"And this," Rowena continued, "is my Uncle Lamar. He's the Director of the Clock Tower."
At that, Godric's grip on Lamar's hand tightened. His crimson eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous flashing behind them. "You're the Director of the Clock Tower?" His words was quiet, but there was an unmistakable steel beneath it. "The one who sits at the very top?"
Lamar met his gaze evenly, unruffled. "Lamar Burgess, and as a matter of fact, I am, Mister Gryffindor," he confirmed. "It is my duty to maintain peace and order in Avalon. A responsibility I have upheld for many years."
Godric's crimson gaze bore into the older man, taking in every detail—the silver strands slicked back with precision, the deep-set wrinkles carved by time and experience, the careful smile resting on his lips. But beneath that veneer of warmth and authority, all Godric saw was the man responsible for tearing Raine away from him. The man who had refused any plea for concession, parlay, or understanding. The man who wielded the law like a blade, absolute and unyielding, cutting through anything and anyone in the way of his so-called order.
The fire within Godric flared, surging through his veins like molten iron. His fingers twitched at his side, an itch creeping up his arm—a hunger, a demand. The weight of his sword against his back felt heavier, more present than ever, whispering to him like a siren in the dark. His pulse pounded in his ears, an unrelenting drumbeat of rage and grief. A tide of memories crashed over him—Raine's tear-streaked face, the cold finality of her absence, the raw, gaping wound that still festered in his chest.
And then, a voice.
Low. Insidious. Whispering from the depths of his mind.
Draw your sword.
His fingers flexed at his side.
He is the reason for your pain.
His breath came shallow, measured.
End him.
The voice coiled around his thoughts, latching onto his fury, feeding it, stoking it higher. It wasn't just about Raine anymore. It was everything. The hypocrisy. The lies. The possibility that the Clock Tower—this man's legacy—had framed an innocent for a crime he did not commit.
The whisper turned to a roar. A command.
Strike him down.
Godric's grip tightened. The muscles in his jaw clenched. The weight of his sword pulled at him, a silent invitation.
And for a single, terrifying moment, he considered it.
Instead, Godric withdrew his hand with deliberate slowness. His lips curled slightly—not in a smile, but something closer to disdain. "I take it back."
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel. His posture was rigid, his jaw clenched as he addressed Blaise without so much as a glance back. "I have somewhere else to be. Homework and all."
Godric took a few steps forward, but halted just before rounding the corner, his grip still ironclad around the strap of his sword. He could feel their eyes on him—Rowena's concerned, Helga's uncertain, Jeanne's confused. But it was the Director's gaze that burned the most.
Slowly, he turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder, his crimson eyes simmering with restrained fury.
"And Director Lamar?" He spat the title like venom. "I hope you find justice…" His gaze darkened. "…before justice finds you."
Then, without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, leaving only the echo of his words hanging in the heavy silence.
****
Lamar stood frozen for a brief moment, his brows furrowing as he replayed Godric's words in his mind. His fingers twitched at his sides before he turned toward Rowena, confusion flickering behind his sharp gaze.
"Was it something I said?" he asked. "If I've somehow offended the lad, I—"
"No," Rowena interjected, shaking her head. "No, Uncle Lamar. Godric is just…" She hesitated, glancing toward the hallway where he had vanished. "He's in a very dark place right now."
Headmaster Blaise sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Miss Ravenclaw is correct. However, I do apologize for my student's behavior," he said with a respectful nod. "I'll have a word with him."
Lamar waved a dismissive hand. "Perish the thought, Windsor. I took no offense." A small smile played at his lips. "He's a young man. Strong-willed, passionate. I can respect that. There is no punishment deserved for one who remains true to himself." His gaze shifted back to Rowena, softening slightly. "If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, you need only ask."
Rowena offered a small, appreciative smile. "Thank you, Uncle Lamar. I'm sure Godric would appreciate it too…" Though even as she said it, she wasn't sure it was true.
Lamar simply shrugged. "Well, duty calls. No rest for the wicked, as they say. Especially for those who stand against them." He turned to Hartshorne. "Shall we?"
Sheriff Hartshorne nodded before shifting his focus to Blaise. "We'll be in touch. Keep a close eye on the school, Windsor, and if anything changes—if anything happens—contact me directly."
"You have my word, George," Blaise said.
The two men exchanged a nod before Lamar turned his attention back to Rowena, offering her one final smile before heading down the corridor.
Once they were out of earshot, Headmaster Blaise exhaled and turned to the three girls, his expression more serious now.
"As a personal favor to me… keep an eye on young Gryffindor." His normally composed gaze held a shadow of concern. "It pains me to say this, but if there is ever a man teetering on the precipice of collapse, it is him. And I do not wish to involve Doctor Adani any more than you do."
"We understand, Professor," Helga assured him.
"We'll make sure he stays on the straight and narrow," Rowena added.
Jeanne nodded in agreement, though her fingers clenched slightly at her sides.
"I most certainly hope so," Blaise murmured, straightening. He gave them one last nod before turning on his heel and heading down the hallway, leaving the three girls standing in place, the weight of his words settling over them like an unseen burden.
Jeanne pressed a hand against her chest, her fingers lightly grasping the fabric of her robes as her gaze fell to the floor. The sheriff's words echoed in her mind. The D'Arc family.
All her life, she had believed herself the daughter of simple peasants—humble, ordinary, without nobility, without any claim to status. Yet here, in a world she barely understood, a man from a realm so far removed from her own had recognized her name. How could that be?
A gnawing sense of doubt took root within her, winding its way through her thoughts. Had her family kept something from her? Perhaps even they had been unaware? Her stomach twisted at the uncertainty, but one thing was clear—she would find out the truth.
"So…" Helga cut through her reverie, and Jeanne blinked up at her. "You want to know about that human trash, Cardin Winchester?"
Jeanne hesitated before nodding, and Helga gestured for her to follow. "That's a story best told over tea and tarts. Fornac knows I need something sweet to wash the bad taste out of my mouth."
Rowena walked beside them, adjusting the books in her arms with a quiet sigh, and Jeanne, despite the weight lingering in her thoughts, found herself smiling.
"Tea and tarts sound lovely," she said softly.
With that, the three of them turned down the corridor, making their way toward the Great Hall, leaving behind the lingering echoes of unanswered questions.
****
Godric's breath hitched as he splashed cold water onto his face, droplets dripping from his chin into the cracked porcelain sink. His fingers curled around the edges, knuckles white, his grip unyielding. The chill bit into his skin, but it wasn't enough to quell the fire burning inside him. He lifted his head, locking eyes with his reflection in the fractured mirror. His crimson gaze was hard, shadowed, barely containing the storm raging within.
The bathroom was silent save for the slow drip of a leaky pipe in the corner. The tiles were cracked, the grout blackened with age. The damp air carried the scent of stagnant water and mold, clinging to the walls like an unwanted guest. Most people wouldn't linger in a place like this. But for Godric, it was grounding. It was here, in this very room, that he had first saved Raine. Here, that he had realized she was more than just a slave—she was everything. And then, just as swiftly as she had entered his life, she had been ripped away.
Lamar.
The name burned in his mind. The man who stood at the pinnacle of the Clock Tower. The man who decided the fate of countless others, wielding the law as both sword and shield. How many lives had he torn apart in the name of his so-called justice? How many families had he shattered while ensuring the Tower itself remained untainted, above reproach?
Godric's fingers twitched. He could have done it. Could have ended him right there in the hallway, cut him down before he uttered another word. A fleeting moment of justice—true justice. And if it meant spending the rest of his life in a dark cell at Revel's End or kneeling before the executioner's block, so be it. His breaths quickened, ragged and furious. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, and the rage, the sheer indignation, clawed at his ribs, demanding release.
How dare they?
How dare these men sit upon their thrones, dictating the fates of those beneath them with impunity? How dare they hold themselves above the very laws they imposed, untouched, unchallenged? To men like Lamar, the law was a weapon—a leash meant to keep people like him in line.
And because of that man, because of his so-called justice… Godric would never see Raine again.
The fire within him burned hotter, a violent inferno raging beneath his skin. His vision blurred at the edges, his pulse pounding in his ears, and before he could stop himself he drove his fist into the mirror.
Shards of glass rained to the floor, scattering across the tiles like fallen stars. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. The fractured reflection stared back at him, a thousand broken versions of himself, each one just as lost, just as furious.
No amount of drink would drown this feeling. No fleeting distraction would smother the fire.
He needed something else. He needed a fight.
And there was only one place to find it.
The Congregation.
****
Lamar's steps were slow and deliberate, his thoughts tangled in a silent storm as he gazed down at his open palm. The castle corridors hummed with life, students weaving through the stone passageways, their voices mingling in a chorus of idle chatter. Outside, the sky had deepened into the hues of twilight, while the crystal lamps lining the halls burned brighter, their golden glow casting flickering shadows against the ancient walls. From the Great Hall, the rich scent of roast meats and fresh-baked confections wafted through the air, an indulgence that had once been familiar.
"Gods, do I miss the feasts," Sheriff Hartshorne mused, his lips curling into a wistful smile as they maneuvered through the crowd. "Back when I was a student, it was the only thing I had to look forward to after the endless drudgery of lessons." His gaze flicked toward Lamar, who remained uncharacteristically silent. "Something on your mind?"
Lamar curled his fingers inward, tucking his hand into his coat pocket. "Did you see the way that boy looked at me?" he asked. "The way he spoke?"
Hartshorne exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Pay it no mind, Lamar. As you said, boys will be boys," he said simply. "You heard Rowena—he's grappling with demons none of us can begin to understand."
"And that is precisely why it concerns me," Lamar muttered, his gaze was sharp. "I have seen young men like him before. That spark in their eyes, that defiance simmering just beneath the surface… If left unchecked, that fire doesn't fade—it spreads. And when it does, it leads to opposition." His jaw tightened slightly. "And opposition, if left to fester, leads to revolution."
Hartshorne's expression darkened slightly. "Do you want me to keep an eye on him?"
Lamar was silent for a moment before shaking his head. "No," he said finally. "Perhaps I'm being paranoid—on edge after everything that's happened. And besides…"
His gaze flickered toward the Great Hall, where Rowena sat among her friends, engaged in light conversation. "If he's Rowena's friend, I am willing to extend the benefit of the doubt. I've known the Ravenclaws a long time, and they do not associate with troublemakers."
Hartshorne nodded in understanding, though the unease in his own gut had yet to settle. "That being said… I sense it too," he admitted. "We've both been doing this long enough to know trouble when we see it."
A quiet chuckle escaped Lamar's lips. "You're right. But for now, let's hope it does not come to that." He took a deep breath, shaking off the lingering tension. "The lad is promising. I'd rather have him as an ally than an enemy."
As they passed by the Great Hall, their eyes swept over the students within—young men and women dining without a care, their conversations ranging from studies to the trivial woes of adolescent life. The sight made Lamar pause, his features softening ever so slightly. A small smile played at the corner of his lips as he shook his head.
"You were right about one thing," he said, casting a glance at Hartshorne.
The sheriff raised a brow. "Oh?"
Lamar exhaled, his gaze lingering on the platters of steaming food. "I too miss the feasts."
Hartshorne let out a hearty chuckle as the two men stepped out into the cool night air, their figures vanishing into the courtyard beyond.
****
The tower stood alone on the cliffside, its weathered stone walls etched with the passage of time. Once a vigilant watchpost in the days when Caerleon was a mere town, it now loomed silently over the sprawling city below, a relic of a forgotten war. Through the tall, circular window at its peak, Asriel sat perched, his amber gaze locked onto the distant silhouette of Castle Excalibur.
In his hand, he held a golden locket, the delicate hinge creaking as it lay open. Within its frame, two photographs moved in perpetual motion—a younger Asriel and an elven girl, frozen in an endless moment of happiness. The image flickered softly, a cruel reminder of a time long past, a life that had been stolen from him. His fingers curled around the locket as he exhaled, a quiet sigh lost in the stillness of the tower's interior.
The space around him was well maintained despite the age of the structure. Wooden floorboards stretched across the chamber, thick beams lining the walls. The furniture remained untouched—beds neatly arranged, a sofa by the hearth, a fully stocked kitchen and supplies gathering dust. Everything was as it had always been, yet nothing felt the same. Not that it mattered. Food had long since lost its meaning, its taste turning to ash in his mouth. This place was once a sanctuary, a home given to him when he had none. Now, it was nothing more than a monument to the past.
His gaze drifted to the far end of the room, where a stout figure lay sprawled in a deep slumber, surrounded by empty bottles. The unmistakable snoring of Gunnar, the dwarf, rumbled through the chamber.
"So, this is where you used to call home?"
Asriel turned his head slightly. Isha stood leaning against the wall beside him, arms crossed over her chest. Without her armor, her ashen skin was more pronounced against the deep midnight blue of her ponytail. Her pointed elven ears twitched slightly as her amber eyes studied the space around them.
"Cozy," she mused.
"You could say that," Asriel murmured, his gaze shifting to the ceiling. "Harold was a man of few words, but he had a heart of gold. He gave me a place to sleep when I had nowhere to go." A quiet chuckle escaped him. "Rest in peace, you old fool."
Isha tilted her head. "What's the story behind this place?" she asked, glancing around.
Asriel shrugged. "Not much to tell. The town gave it to him as a sort of retirement gift. He was a war hero once, but he never liked company, so he stayed out here, as far from the city as possible." He allowed a small smirk to cross his lips. "I suppose I can relate."
A sudden shift in the air, the faint scent of burning embers, and then—
A swirl of smoke and ash coalesced into a towering figure. Both Asriel and Isha turned as Orgrim materialized beside them. Seven feet tall, built like a war machine, the orc's pale skin contrasted starkly against the deep amber glow of his eyes. His massive arms folded across his chest, his tusks protruding slightly from his lower jaw as he regarded them with a steady, unreadable expression.
Orgrim wasted no time. "The city's swarming," he reported, his voice deep and commanding. "Not just the cavalry—the whole damned legion. They're running scared."
Asriel sat forward, closing the locket with a soft snap. "And the targets?"
"Where they're supposed to be," Orgrim confirmed. "You were right. They've moved the leadership to Caerleon. But we have to be careful. If we make our move too soon, they'll take shelter in the bunkers beneath the city. We won't be able to reach them."
Asriel stood, his fingers tightening around the locket before slipping it into his pocket. "The three of you have your marks," he said. "I have only one." His gaze darkened. "There is no point in this if he's still breathing when the dust settles."
Orgrim exhaled sharply. "I searched high and low. No sign of him."
"Then you didn't look hard enough," Asriel countered without hesitation.
Isha frowned. "You really think he's here?"
"I don't think," Asriel corrected. "I know." He took a step forward, pacing toward the window, his fingers resting against the cool glass as his eyes swept over the city below. "He's not hiding. His pride won't allow it. Not when his men are out there, fighting, dying. He wouldn't risk them turning on him."
"He's out there, convinced that he's untouchable." His fingers curled into a fist. "It's a delusion I intend to shatter. And for the first time in his life…"
He turned, his gaze burning with something dangerous, something absolute.
"He'll know fear."
****
Back at Excalibur Castle, Lamar stepped through the towering doors and into the crisp evening air. The fading light cast elongated shadows across the courtyard, the flickering glow of crystal lanterns illuminating the cobblestone path. His sharp eyes immediately locked onto the waiting vehicle, its sleek black frame reflecting the amber hues of the lamps. With a practiced hand, he brushed the wrinkles from his robes, straightening them as he descended the steps with measured grace. Sheriff Hartshorne followed at his side, their boots echoing softly against the stone.
But at that very moment, miles away on the outskirts of Caerleon, something shifted.
It was subtle at first, like the faintest tremor beneath the floorboards, a pulse that reverberated through the ancient tower, humming through the stone, the wood, the very bones of the structure. It coursed through the walls like a whisper carried on the wind, an invisible current of power that slithered into every crevice.
Asriel's amber eyes snapped open.
Isha's breath hitched, her grip tightening against her arms.
Orgrim, who had remained as still as a statue, exhaled sharply, his tusks bared in a slow, knowing grin.
Even Gunnar, deep in his drunken slumber, stirred, his fingers twitching against an empty bottle before his lips curled into a smirk.
The air crackled with something unspoken, something ancient and undeniable.
Asriel's smirk deepened. His tone quiet, almost reverent, as he spoke the words they all felt in their very marrow.
"He's here."