There is no pain quite like that of watching your home, the city you've nurtured, bled for, dismantled piece by piece until all that remains is a smoldering carcass. Angela sat slumped in the armchair by her bedroom window, the velvet cushions offering little comfort. Outside, the night burned. Embers danced through the sky like dying stars, carried by plumes of smoke that bled into the blackened clouds above. Her fingers dug into the armrests, rose-painted nails near tearing through the upholstery.
Even in confinement, word reached her of the horrors now stalking Caerleon's streets. Norsefire, unchained and ravenous, turned the city into a hunting ground. Anyone deemed a threat was fair game. Innocents. Children. Scholars. No one spared.
Never in her worst imaginings had she thought that inviting Lamar Burgess and the Clock Tower into Caerleon would open the gates of Hell itself. She had believed, perhaps naively, that even a man like him could be shackled by law, by structure, by the weight of his own creed. She saw now just how deep the rot ran. Power was a drug, and Lamar was far beyond addicted. He'd carved out his kingdom through fear, and now, Caerleon paid the price.
Her jaw tightened as she replayed their last exchange in the office. Lamar's vitriol had been venomous—but they weren't entirely false. Caerleon had never been a haven of progress. The older generations held fast to old hierarchies, however shallow or hypocritical. It was always ironic, how people of every race, shape, and creed could find new ways to look down on one another.
Her mother had come from the gutter, her father from the upper halls of politics. Angela had risen in that divide, carved a name through will and merit—not inheritance. And through her, Caerleon had changed. Not all at once, but enough. Enough to give people hope.
But hope, she realized bitterly, could be suffocated. Especially when monsters like Lamar were let through the front door. Her dark eyes narrowed on the burning skyline.
The door to her bedroom eased open with a long, reluctant creak, brass hinges groaning under the weight of years and use. Angela didn't move. Only her eyes shifted, following the Norsefire guard who stepped inside with practiced rigidity.
He moved with the stiff precision of someone drilled into obedience, yet the sneer barely hidden beneath his helmet betrayed a flicker of contempt. In his hands, he carried a polished silver tray lined with embroidered silk, the corners crisp and ceremonial. Atop it sat a porcelain tea set—bone-white with gilded edges, delicate patterns of green ivy curling around each piece. A teapot, a cup and saucer, a small plate with two scones arranged beside a crystal dish of gleaming red jam. Everything too perfect, too polite, for a prison.
He crossed the room without a word and set the tray down on the table in front of her with a controlled clatter. His gloved hand lingered a moment too long near the edge of the china, as if tempted to knock it over, to shatter the illusion of civility. Then he looked at her.
The disdain in his eyes was unmistakable. Born of indoctrination, or fear, or both. Angela met his stare, her expression as still as carved stone. Unshaken. Unimpressed.
A short scoff escaped him, sharp and breathless, before he turned on his heel toward the door.
"It's not too late, young man." Her words a calm, steady, a quiet murmur that cut across the silence like a thread through cloth.
She reached for the teapot with graceful familiarity, fingers curled around its delicate handle. As she poured, steam unfurled into the air, carrying with it the soothing scent of chamomile and dried lavender.
"Turn in your badge. Leave the Tower while you still can."
He stopped.
The air in the room seemed to shift, tension coiling like a rope drawn taut. Slowly, he turned back toward her, eyes dark and burning beneath the shadow of his helmet.
"And why the hell would I do that?" he growled.
Angela didn't answer at first. Instead, she dropped two sugar cubes into the cup, the crystalline plinks echoing faintly. She stirred, not hurriedly, but with a deliberate grace, the silver spoon circling in soft rings. The quiet sound of metal on porcelain filled the space between them.
She looked up.
"Come now," she said, almost chiding. "Even you aren't so dense as to believe the Tower will walk away from this untouched."
She tapped the spoon against the rim of the cup with a soft ting, then placed it neatly on the saucer. Her fingers curled around the cup, lifting it to her lips. The warmth radiated through the porcelain, grounding her.
"You're far too young to remember the Camelot Insurrection," she said after a sip. "But I do."
The words hung heavy in the air.
"They tell you the Tower saved the day," she murmured. "But I remember the smoke that choked the streets, the children who never came home, the gardens burned down to ash. I remember the silence after the blood had dried."
She leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting for a moment toward the window.
"It was so brutal that even King Uther himself demanded retribution." She set the teacup back onto the saucer with a gentle clink, the sound oddly final. "And retribution came, yes… though it was lopsided, farcical—punishment dealt not to the guilty, but to those easiest to blame. Mere theatre to appease His Majesty's fury, nothing more."
Her eyes returned to the guard, sharp and unrelenting now.
"And what was done to Camelot," she said, "was merciful compared to what's being done to Caerleon."
Her head tilted ever slightly. "As I said, you're young. You have your entire future ahead with you. Whatever was promised to you by Burgess, it will never come to fruition. Keep that badge upon your chest when it's all said and done, and all that awaits you is a wooden block and an executioner's axe."
The guard sneered, eyes flashing with contempt. "Thanks for the tip, grandma," he spat. "Here's one for you—shut your bleeding trap."
Angela didn't flinch. No anger touched her face. Only a flicker of mild amusement crept into her expression, like one humoring a child throwing a tantrum.
"You think we're in this for gold? For medals? Recognition?" he snapped. "We fight because we believe in Director Burgess. We believe in truth—real truth—and in justice. Avalon's grown fat and forgetful under the peace we've kept. Especially this damned city. You people, with your softness and your ideals, have let rebellion fester right under your noses. And now look at the mess you've made."
He jabbed a finger toward her chest.
"All they had to do was shut their mouths and lower their heads. Just obey. That's all. But no, they wanted a fight. They wanted chaos. And now Caerleon's a smoking ruin because they refused to follow the law. Because they refused to follow us."
He leaned closer, a twisted smirk spreading across his face. "And we are the law. We are Norsefire. The Tower protects us, and we protect the Tower."
Angela let out a quiet, rasping chuckle, low and bitter.
"Oh, you sweet summer child," she said, shaking her head. "How utterly broken you must be to swallow such transparent indoctrination. Did they whisper it to you while you slept? Did you need it to quiet the screams from your childhood?"
Her words sharpened, like the edge of a blade sheathed in silk.
"You've clung to power like a drowning man to driftwood, and now you mistake survival for strength. Yes—your authority is real. I won't deny that. But it is not eternal. It is not absolution. And it most certainly is not protection."
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking onto his.
"When dawn breaks over this city—and it will—your masters will be gone, their names buried beneath the rubble. And when the blade falls, child… it won't be kings or directors that face it first. It will be foot soldiers like you."
The guard's face twisted with rage as his hand flew to his side, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. Steel hissed against leather as he ripped the blade free from its sheath, the polished edge gleaming beneath the amber lamplight like a promise of violence.
"When this is over," he snarled, "the Director said you'd be tried for treason and strung up from a noose. But perhaps I'll spare us the theatrics and end you myself."
Angela didn't flinch. Instead, she tilted her head, a trace of amusement curling at the corners of her lips.
"But of course," she murmured, returning the saucer gently to the tray with a soft clink. "Even I grow weary of bureaucracy."
Her gaze shifted, calm and unhurried, as she lifted a finger—not in fear, but in gesture.
"Though I imagine he may not share your impatience."
The guard blinked. A chill swept down his spine. Slowly, he turned.
Behind him stood a figure cloaked in black from head to toe. Robes draped like shadows; hood drawn low. But it was the face or rather, the lack of one that made the blood drain from his cheeks. A white porcelain mask stared back at him, blank and inhuman. Two narrow slits for eyes. No mouth. No expression. Only the engraved sigil of the Clock Tower etched like a brand into the forehead.
The guard's lips parted in silent recognition. He knew what this man was.
He raised his blade—but too late.
The staff cracked across his helmet and skull with brutal force. The sound was sharp and wet. Bone splintered. Blood sprayed in an arc across the embroidered carpet. The guard collapsed mid-motion, eyes still wide, sword slipping from lifeless fingers. His final breath never came.
Angela exhaled and stood from her chair, brushing a crease from her dress with one hand.
"Took you long enough."
Her eyes found the mask.
"I was beginning to wonder when Blaise would send his personal Executioner to my rescue. You certainly took your sweet time… Serfence."
The figure reached up, unfastened the mask, and lowered his hood. Beneath it was a face pale from the cold, sharply drawn and composed.
"My apologies, Mayor Ramonda," Serfence said. "There were… complications."
Angela waved him off with a sharp flick of her fingers.
"Spare me the excuses. I know what's happening beyond these walls. My city is screaming, Serfence. I hear it every hour. People are dying while Lamar Burgess and his Tower choke the life from Caerleon."
She stepped forward.
"And they will pay for it. All of them. Even if it's the last thing I ever do."
"I don't doubt your avidity, Madam," Serfence replied coolly, slipping the porcelain mask back over his face with gloved precision. "But for now, we must prioritise your safety. Best we move quietly. Your estate is riddled with Norsefire patrols and they could be—"
"The hell?"
The voice rang out sharp from the doorway. Both Serfence and Angela turned as a guard stepped into view, wide-eyed and already reaching for his wand.
"Hands up! Where I can—"
A deafening bang tore through the air, the flash blinding against the dim hallway. The very walls trembled, picture frames rattling as the concussive blast echoed through the manor. A mist of blood splashed across the wallpaper as the guard's body collapsed, crumpling in a heap.
A figure stepped into view—a tall man in a tailored, jet-black three-piece suit, crisp collar, and matte black tie. His hair was slicked back, gleaming like oil beneath the hallway light. In his right hand, he held a sidearm: sleek, carbon-black, still hot from the shot.
"And there goes any semblance of subtlety," Serfence muttered, eyes narrowing behind the mask.
"Yo, Serfence," Ryan called. "What the hell's taking you so damn long?"
His gaze shifted—and stopped cold when it landed on Angela. His brows lifted slightly. Then, with a casual grin, he offered a two-fingered salute.
"Evenin', ma'am."
Angela turned to Serfence, face flat, unimpressed. "A colleague of yours?"
Serfence let out a quiet sigh and shrugged. "Unfortunately."
Ryan peered over the bannisters. Shouts echoed from below—harsh, urgent. The unmistakable stamp of boots striking marble filled the manor like a drumbeat of impending chaos.
"We've got company." He stepped fully into the room. "Take the mayor and slip out the back. You know this city better than I do—you won't have trouble finding your way to Excalibur."
He turned without waiting for a reply, already checking the corridor.
"What?" Serfence's eyes widened behind the mask. "You can't possibly be serious. You intend to take them all on alone? That's lunacy—even for you."
Ryan glanced over his shoulder, a crooked grin forming. "Aw, that concern I hear?" he teased.
Serfence stiffened visibly.
Ryan chuckled. "Relax. Remember what Headmaster Blaise said? I'm just doing what I do best."
Serfence folded his arms. "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to be?"
With a flick of his wrist, Ryan cocked the weapon. The click echoed like a countdown.
"Hunt," he said simply, then turned and vanished into the shadows of the hallway.
"What an intriguing man." Angela arched a brow, her lips curling into a small, approving smile. "I think I might be starting to like him."
Serfence sighed, half in exasperation, half in resignation. "You would."
He gestured toward the door. "After you, Mayor Ramonda."
Angela moved swiftly, her posture regal even in retreat, as Serfence fell in behind her, cloak billowing as they disappeared into the dark.
"He rather reminds me of you, once upon a time," Angela said with a quiet chuckle.
Serfence didn't miss a step. "Please don't," he replied flatly, as if the very idea pained him.
****
A dozen and a half Norsefire guards filed into the manor, their movements rigid, rehearsed. Their jet-black carbon armor gleamed beneath the amber glow cast by ornate crystal sconces and the grand chandelier that loomed overhead like a crown of light. The mayor's mansion was nothing short of opulent—vaulted ceilings stretched high above marbled floors; each stone slab imported from the farthest reaches of Avalon.
Alabaster walls framed sprawling halls, while the living quarters were dressed in regal furnishings carved from immaculate timber. Shelves lined the perimeters, crowded with trophies and medals earned over decades of public service, interspersed with ancient tomes, rare antiques, and artifacts collected during Angela Ramonda's long reign as Caerleon's political matriarch. The interior was bohemian in taste, yet unmistakably powerful in presence.
Then—without warning—the lights died.
The chandelier flickered once and went out. The sconces followed. Darkness swallowed the manor whole, broken only by the pale silver shafts of moonlight filtering through the tall, arched windows, casting long, fractured shadows across the polished floor.
The guards froze, startled, instinct overriding discipline. Wands were raised in unison. A chorus of whispered incantations followed as the tips of their wands flared to life, casting narrow beams of white into the oppressive gloom.
They stood motionless, breath held, hearts pounding like war drums beneath their armor. Sweat began to bead at their brows despite the chill. The silence pressed in on them—thick, suffocating.
Eyes darted across the room, scanning the shifting shadows.
Somewhere, something creaked.
Fingers tightened around blades, batons, and wand hilts as the guards pressed deeper into the manor. Four broke off from the main group, ascending the grand staircase in single file, their footfalls muffled against the plush runner. No words passed between them—only quick hand signals, flicks of their fingers guiding their silent approach toward the mayor's bedroom.
As they passed a darkened hallway, the lead guard halted abruptly. His wandlight cut through the black, and in the narrow beam, he saw a figure standing still, calm, waiting.
The man looked up at him, eyes glinting behind the gunmetal gleam of a weapon.
"Boo," Ryan said.
The guard barely raised his wand before Ryan surged forward. He caught the man's wrist, twisting it up and out with a bone-jarring crack. In the same motion, he leveled his sidearm—two quick shots into the guard's gut. The muffled cracks echoed faintly. The slide snapped back, spent casings pinging onto the polished floor.
The second guard didn't even manage a curse before a bullet tore through his forehead. The third received two in the chest, dropped where he stood. The fourth turned to run. One round shattered his throat, painting the walls red as he tumbled backward down the staircase.
Another guard rushed to the foot of the stairs; wand raised. Ryan didn't hesitate. He fired once—clean between the eyes. The man collapsed with a dull thud.
Without pause, Ryan vaulted over the banister, catching it with one hand and swinging low. He landed in a crouch, absorbing the impact in silence. Spells cracked through the air behind him, lighting the corridor in bursts of gold and red as streaks of magical fire scorched past.
He rolled forward, took aim, and fired. The shot struck a guard in the thigh, spinning him sideways with a cry. Before the man could scream again, Ryan's next bullet ended it—bursting through the back of his skull and splattering the marble floor with red.
Ryan rose to his feet, back pressed against the wall beside a wide archway leading into the living room. With practiced ease, he ejected the spent magazine, letting it drop as he pulled a fresh one from his belt and slammed it home. He racked the slide with a crisp clack, chambering a fresh round just as another guard burst through the side hall, sword already drawn.
Ryan stepped into him.
He brought the gun down like a hammer—both hands locked around the grip—and smashed it against the flat of the blade, knocking the weapon clean from the guard's hand with a sharp clang. In the same motion, he drove the butt of the gun straight into the man's mouth. Teeth cracked. Blood sprayed. The guard stumbled backward with a muffled scream as Ryan seized his collar and dragged him forward.
With a roar, Ryan hurled him sideways into a bookshelf. Wood splintered on impact, volumes of heavy tomes spilled across the floor, and glass trinkets shattered like falling stars.
The guard tried to rise—too slow.
Ryan slammed a knee into his ribs, lifted him with brute force, and flipped him over his shoulder. The man crashed to the marble floor with a sickening thud.
From the far end of the living room, another guard appeared.
Ryan spun and fired. One shot. The man cried out as he dropped.
Without hesitation, he turned back to the guard on the ground. He didn't speak. Didn't blink.
He raised the weapon, squeezed the trigger.
The muzzle flash lit the room in stark orange, shadows dancing across the torn shelves and scattered books. For a heartbeat, it looked as if the manor was aflame. Then silence. The body lay still.
Ryan snapped his gaze toward the far end of the room as more guards poured in, boots clattering against the marble. A barrage of spells lit the air—neon streaks of emerald green and searing red slicing through the darkness with deadly speed. He ducked low, rolling behind a shattered settee, his sidearm raised.
He returned fire without hesitation—controlled, precise shots that rang through the chaos.
His eyes caught a flash of silver on the wall—an ornamental plate, broad and polished like a ceremonial shield. Without thinking, he grabbed it from its mount and hurled it across the room like a discus. It spun with a sharp whistle and collided full-force with a guard's face. Bone crunched. The plate shattered on impact. The man dropped like a stone.
Ryan surged forward across the living room, weaving between columns and toppled furniture. A guard charged him, dagger drawn. Ryan snapped a shot into the man's shoulder, staggering him. In one fluid motion, he lunged, vaulting onto the man's chest just as another guard raised a wand from across the room.
He fired mid-air—one shot to the second guard's chest. The man crumpled before his spell left his lips. He landed hard atop the first, twisting his body as he took him to the floor. Without pause, Ryan pressed the muzzle to the man's temple and pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed across the tile.
He stood, pivoted, and fired once more—finishing the other guard now writhing on the ground beside him.
No time to rest.
Ryan dashed into the adjoining hallway, boots pounding against the polished floor. He burst through the swinging door into the kitchen, where the scent of spice and copper still hung in the air.
A guard near the counter turned, too late. Ryan fired. The round struck him clean in the neck—blood arced across the shelves and counters as the man collapsed with a wet gasp.
Another guard rushed in from the side. Ryan turned and squeezed the trigger—but the man was already inside his guard. The bullet missed. The enemy grabbed his wrist, forcing the gun upward as he drove Ryan hard into the tiled wall, forearm pressed across his throat.
Ryan gritted his teeth, choking against the pressure as his muscles strained. A second guard appeared at the corner of his eye, wand raised to strike. He shifted his weight, twisted just enough and fired.
The first shot caught the second guard clean in the chest, flinging him backward against the fridge with a loud metallic thud. He slid to the floor, motionless.
Ryan let out a ragged breath, still grappling with the first guard. His pistol inched downward, finger tightening on the trigger—until the guard twisted his wrist hard, wrenching the weapon free. The gun clattered across the checkered tile floor, spinning out of reach.
Before the man could press the advantage, Ryan struck—his forearm slamming into the guard's throat, cutting off his air with brutal precision. He seized the man's collar, lifted, and hurled him onto the kitchen counter with a heavy crash. Plates shattered. Glass scattered.
Ryan's fist came down like a hammer—once to the nose, breaking it with a crunch, then again to the jaw. Bone split beneath the force. Blood sprayed across the polished countertop.
Another guard grabbed him from behind, arms locking around his throat, yanking him back. Ryan snarled, driving his elbow into the man's gut. As the guard staggered, Ryan slammed the back of his head into the man's face with a sickening crack. Bone gave way. He spun, elbow flashing, and caught the man full in the cheek, sending him stumbling sideways.
Ryan turned to the guard still sprawled on the counter, gasping, head hanging off the edge. His eyes darted to a wooden knife block nearby. He grabbed the handle of a chef's knife and tore it free in one swift motion.
With a savage grunt, he drove his elbow into the guard's exposed neck. There was a crack like splintering wood. The man went limp.
Ryan spun to meet the second attacker. Without hesitation, he buried the blade into the man's neck. Blood jetted from the wound, splashing across the floor as the guard gurgled and dropped.
A burst of footsteps thundered in from the hall—three more guards charged into the kitchen, weapons drawn.
Ryan dove forward, rolled across the floor, and grabbed his fallen sidearm. He pivoted, raised it mid-motion, and fired.
One. Two. Three.
The kitchen exploded with gunfire. Muzzle flashes lit the blood-slick tiles. One shot took a guard in the chest. The second dropped with a scream as a bullet tore through his leg. The third collapsed mid-step, shot clean through the eye.
Then—silence.
Thick, weighty silence.
The only sound was Ryan's breath—steady, controlled—beneath the soft dripping of blood onto tile.
****
Ryan straightened slowly, spine popping as he rolled his shoulders back. His breath came deep and ragged, each inhale dragging through grit-lined lungs. Sweat trickled down his temple, and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve, grimacing.
"Come work for Excalibur, he said," Ryan muttered. "You'll do great, he said. It'll be fun, he said."
He cracked his neck with a pained grunt. "Jesus Christ… I'm getting too old for this shit."
With a sigh, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew a slim metal cigarette case. He flicked it open, plucked one free with his teeth, then patted down his coat for the lighter. Nothing. He cursed under his breath and let out a groan as he scanned the wreckage around him.
His eyes fell on the corpse slumped over the kitchen counter—head dangling loosely like a butcher's sack, neck bent at an unnatural angle. Ryan stepped over shattered glass and bent low, rifling through the man's pockets with practiced efficiency. A grin tugged at the edge of his lips as his fingers closed around a small box of matches.
He laid his gun on the blood-slick counter and gestured casually at the body.
"You don't mind, do you?" he said. Then rolled his eyes. "Right. Of course you don't."
He struck a match with a snap, lit the cigarette, and took a slow drag, the tip flaring orange in the gloom. He exhaled a stream of smoke through his nostrils, eyes momentarily closed.
"Y-You…"
The voice was hoarse, strained, barely more than a wheeze. Ryan turned his head.
One of the guards was still alive—the one he'd dropped with a leg shot. The man lay sprawled across the tiles, writhing weakly, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath him. His face was pale, slick with sweat, eyes wide in horror.
"Nosferatu," the man rasped.
Ryan raised a brow and took the cigarette from his lips, exhaling a trail of smoke through his teeth. Then, with calm deliberation, he picked up his gun and popped the magazine free, replacing it with a fresh one.
The click of the slide being racked echoed through the silence like a death knell.
He stepped forward, boots squelching faintly in blood.
"Do I look like a vampire to you, chum?" he said coolly.
He raised the weapon and fired.