It had been years since Angela Romanda last set foot in Excalibur Academy. Not that she was ever a student, but the sight of its grey stone walls stirred something long buried. A strange calm. Familiar in its austerity, almost comforting. She reclined into the generous armchair by the hearth, the soft beige upholstery warm beneath her.
Steam curled gently from the rim of her teacup, carrying the delicate scent of chamomile. Her quarters were modest compared to the grandeur of the mayor's manor, but they would do. A sizeable bedroom, a sitting room adorned with tapestries, carpets, and dark oak furnishings. Paintings and curious trinkets dotted the shelves—an odd blend of academic charm and arcane elegance. Quaint, yet dignified.
A soft knock sounded at the door, drawing her attention. The brass handle turned, and the door opened with a quiet creak.
Headmaster Blaise Windsor stepped inside, the hem of his sapphire-blue robes sweeping gracefully across the threshold. The white lining shimmered faintly in the candlelight, accentuating the quiet regality that clung to him like a cloak. He smoothed a hand down his neatly kept beard, his expression gentle, though sharp-eyed.
"Good evening, Mayor Romanda," he said with a slight bow. "I trust you've settled in. I do hope everything is to your satisfaction."
Angela gave a dry scoff, waving a hand.
"Oh, spare me the pleasantries, Blaise. We're well past formalities, don't you think?" She gestured to the chair across from her. "Come—join me for tea."
He inclined his head with a faint smile. "If I'm not intruding."
He took the seat as Angela poured him a cup with steady hands.
"My apologies, of course, for the manner of your extraction," he added, accepting the teacup. "I confess, subtlety is not something my professors have ever been accused of. Nor, if I'm honest, something I strongly encourage."
Angela chuckled under her breath, eyes glinting with amusement.
"You needn't apologise," she said. "Though I must admit, I never expected you of all people to break the law so openly, and with such flair."
She leaned back, sipping her tea.
"Lamar will be livid once he hears what transpired," she said with relish. "And I'll admit, I rather savour the thought." Her smile faded, replaced by a steely edge. "I have every intention of ensuring that bastard and his mangy mutts get what they deserve. Even if it's the last thing I do."
"For that," Blaise said calmly, returning the teacup to its saucer, "I have no doubt."
He folded his hands in his lap, fingers steepled with quiet deliberation.
"For as long as I've known Lamar Burgess, I've carried a certain wariness. A sense… that one day, I would face him not as a colleague, but as an adversary."
Angela's gaze softened, her brow knitting slightly. "That's a rather grim thought to hold about a friend, Blaise. And I've known you long enough to know that you're not the type to hold grudges. Nor to assume the worst of those close to you."
Blaise adjusted his half-moon spectacles, eyes distant with memory.
"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to call us the best of friends," he said mildly. "But we were more than passing acquaintances. We studied at Excalibur together—though I was his senior. Along with several other names I suspect you'd recognise."
He gave a faint shrug, as if brushing dust from old memories.
"Our paths diverged not long after graduation. He and Winston pursued the law; I immersed myself in academia. While Lamar clawed his way to the top of the Clock Tower, I found purpose within these walls."
He glanced around the room, the flicker of crystal light dancing against the grey stone.
"Like me, he's earned a name," Blaise continued. "One spoken with reverence, yes—but more often with fear." His gaze settled on Angela once more, calm but unflinching. "There wasn't an enemy of the Clock Tower who didn't know the name Grim Reaper Burgess."
Angela rolled her eyes with a weary sigh. "Don't remind me. The man wears that ridiculous moniker like a badge of honor. Grim Reaper—honestly, it's juvenile." She glanced down at the surface of her tea, watching the steam curl lazily into the air. "That said… I can't deny it's well earned."
She paused. Her words softer but edged with truth.
"Lamar and Winston were the pillars of the Tower. They've averted wars, defused diplomatic disasters, pulled entire regions back from the brink. In the eyes of many, they're heroes—true and tested."
Her gaze lifted again, sharper now.
"But heroes are only human. And humans are ever susceptible to corruption." Her eyes narrowed. "In Burgess's case, though… he was never the paragon of justice he pretended to be. He had his eyes on the Director's chair from the moment he first walked through the Tower doors."
Blaise exhaled, nodding slowly.
"I'll admit," Blaise said thoughtfully, "Lamar has always been… ambitious. Unrelentingly so. Even as a student, he made no secret of his desire to one day claim a seat at the Visionary table—and perhaps another, more shadowed, less official one. Quite fitting, really, for someone draped in Ferrum's colors."
A faint smile ghosted his lips, dry and knowing.
"Of course, he never did achieve either. Not that it stops him from brooding over it to this day. It chafes him—deeply. I know it does. Especially watching Winston rise to become the Visionary of Ventus and myself, Aecor."
"Jealousy," he added quietly, "is a powerful motivator. And in men like Lamar, a dangerous one. That being said, what he lacked in natural strength and magical prowess, he made up for in cunning. Unseemly methods. Political maneuvering. Manipulation. Perhaps those should have been the signs—the warnings we all chose to ignore."
He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes.
"Friends become foes. Bright students stray into darkness. Heroes fall from grace. And all the while, I remain here, watching it unfold around me."
A long breath. A soft, bitter smile.
"Perhaps I've simply been a dreadful judge of character," he murmured. "One of the many reasons I prefer the company of books. They may be filled with lies, but at least they don't pretend otherwise."
Angela's gaze softened. "Honestly, Blaise… that might be the one thing I've always hated about you."
Blaise arched a brow, more curious than offended.
"You want so desperately to see the good in people," she continued, setting her teacup gently onto the saucer, "that you often turn a blind eye to their flaws—whitewash their sins, excuse their character. Most days, that's not such a terrible thing. Hope in one's fellow man is a virtue."
She reached for the teapot and poured herself another cup, the steam curling between them.
"But I've been in politics long enough to know the truth: honesty is a luxury afforded to peasants and pawns. Those at the top rarely earn their thrones with clean hands."
She dropped two cubes of sugar into her tea and stirred.
"There's an old fable," she said. "I'm sure you've heard it—the one about the frog and the scorpion."
"As a matter of fact, I have," Blaise replied, slipping his glasses back on. "But please… indulge me."
Angela smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it.
"You're the frog, Blaise. The idealist. The one who believes—needs to believe—that people are not defined by what others say of them. That a man, no matter his reputation, can still choose a better path."
She rested the spoon on the saucer with a soft clink.
"And Lamar… is the scorpion. He can't help himself. It's in his nature."
She lifted her cup and took a measured sip.
"The truth is, you've held back more times than I can count," she said, meeting his gaze. "You've refused to make the hard decisions because part of you clings to the naïve hope that a man like Lamar Burgess can't truly be as monstrous as he seems."
Angela set her cup down again—this time with purpose. "But as someone wiser than either of us once said—when someone shows you who they are, believe them." She then gestured with a finger, calm but cutting. "And that, Blaise, is your greatest flaw. When you do believe them… it's already too late."
Blaise's sapphire eyes widened slightly, then softened as a low chuckle escaped him.
"By the Gods," he murmured, "it's been quite some time since anyone's chastised me so thoroughly."
He inhaled, then exhaled slowly—a breath that seemed to carry more than mere air.
"I've worn this brittle mask for so long. This image of Blaise Windsor, the infallible. The man without flaw. Without weakness." He offered a faint, tired smile. "Truth is, it's exhausting."
He looked at her, something genuine behind the usual composed veneer.
"And yet, I suppose I could always count on you to see through it."
Angela chuckled, a knowing glint in her eyes. "We've known each other for years, Blaise—both personally and by reputation. There isn't a soul in Avalon who doesn't know your name."
Her tone softened, rich with sincerity.
"You've always been a man of brilliance, dedication and, dare I say, unshakable will." She tilted her head. "They still sing of your achievements in the halls of the Librarium. Speak your name with reverence in the Council of Kings. And even the Wizarding Council holds you in the highest regard."
A faint smile touched her lips. "I'll admit, if I'd possessed even a sliver of your talent… perhaps my ambition would've rivalled Burgess'." She leaned in slightly. "And let's not forget. You've turned down a seat on the Wizarding Council more times than I can count. I know more than a few wizards who've called you mad for it."
Her smile widened just a touch. "Frankly, many would kill for that kind of offer." She raised an eyebrow. "I might have… once."
Blaise smiled again, softer this time. "But alas, my heart belongs to Excalibur Academy, dear Angela," he said. "Just as yours will always belong to Caerleon."
Angela's expression softened as her gaze drifted toward the window.
"I don't know if my city can come back from this," she murmured. "Or if there's even a city left to come back to."
She closed her eyes, the weight of memory settling behind her gaze.
"I did this. All of it. The pain, the suffering, the death—it's on me. Their blood is on my hands. And frankly… I wouldn't be surprised if this ends up being my final term as Mayor."
A bitter chuckle escaped her lips. "Funny, isn't it? I gave you such grief about trusting the wrong people, and yet I opened the front door for the devil himself. And he turned Caerleon into his personal hell."
"No, Angela," Blaise said quietly. "We were wary of Lamar—we always were. But even I never imagined how far he'd fall. There were lines I thought he'd never cross."
His voice turned resolute. "And yet, here we are. I don't know how this madness ends, but I do know it will end."
Angela turned toward him; one brow arched. "You realize he'll bring the full weight of the Clock Tower down on you now. You've made your move. He won't let that go unanswered."
Blaise offered a calm, confident smile.
"If he does… then we'll meet him head-on."
He rose from his chair, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve.
"And even if the Gods themselves favor him, even if Excalibur falls—it would take a divine miracle for him to explain this mess to the Council and come out unscathed."
Angela gave a slow nod. "I hope you're right, Blaise. Because this… this is a dangerous game you're playing."
He leaned forward slightly, a glint of mischief in his eye. "Would you believe me if I told you, it's not my first?"
He straightened, then nodded. "Well, I won't keep you. It's been a long and rather emotional day. For both of us. Should you require anything, don't hesitate to speak with Mister Buffer."
He turned toward the door, but before he reached it, her voice called out behind him.
"Oh, and Blaise," Angela said, lifting an eyebrow with a sly grin. "That new professor of yours—Ashford, was it? He seems to have a particular set of skills. Skills I imagine would be quite useful in a Sheriff, once that post becomes vacant."
Blaise turned slowly, folding his hands behind his back.
"With all due respect, Madame Mayor," he said smoothly, "I'd prefer if you didn't poach my staff. Especially not one quite as… efficient as Professor Ashford."
He gave her a final nod, then turned and stepped quietly out the door.
****
High above the spires of Excalibur Castle—higher even than the wind-blasted towers of the Ventus dorms—the observatory stood in silent vigil over the world below. From this vantage, Ryan could see the entire breadth of Caerleon: the labyrinth of streets, the rooftops bathed in flickering amber light, and the bonfires that dotted the city like distant stars. Beyond that, the dense forests unfurled like a dark ocean, and far in the distance, the snowcapped mountains pierced the horizon.
He leaned forward against the cold stone railing, shoulders hunched, the wind biting through his coat. A cigarette burned between his fingers, the ember flaring as he lifted it to his lips. He took a long drag, then exhaled a stream of smoke into the night air. Gray tendrils curling upward like ghosts.
Different city. Different world. And yet, it was always the same.
He had seen this rot before. Again, and again. A darkness that crept in not through chaos, but through order twisted by the hands of men who believed themselves untouchable. Above consequence, above law. Men who built empires on the backs of the weak, and those too blind, too spineless, or too content to stop them.
No, he hadn't been there when the Dark Lord fell. He hadn't witnessed the final battle, nor The Boy Who Lived to strike the killing blow. But Ryan knew how evil survived. It wasn't magic that gave it life—it was apathy. The kind of silence that came from polished offices and expensive robes. The kind that let monsters speak with law on their lips and blood on their hands.
His eyes narrowed, the memory surfacing like smoke from a smoldering wound.
The office had smelled of oak and dust, lit by the weak moonlight filtering through tall windows. The portly British bureaucrat who once held the highest office in the Ministry of Magic, behind the desk had worn medals he didn't earn, power he didn't deserve. Ryan could still see the man's eyes—wide, pleading, as if cowardice were a shield.
He remembered the cold weight of the gun in his hand. The steady breath. The click of the slide.
Then the crack of a shot.
The sting of gunpowder in the air.
Brass casing tumbling across polished marble.
That was the night he tied off a loose end.
The night he earned his name.
"A strange place for a smoke," came the familiar voice behind him. Serfence stepped up beside Ryan, tall and lean, his black coat catching the wind as it swept along the observatory ledge. His eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned the city below—the distant fires, the smog, the quiet ruin.
"But I can understand the need for quiet contemplation," he added. "Especially after everything that's transpired."
Ryan gave a low chuckle, shaking his head as he took another drag from his cigarette. "You knew, didn't you?" he muttered. "Even before I set foot in this damned place."
Serfence didn't look at him. "Given my connections—and my rather insufferable compulsion to be informed—yes," he said plainly. "Yes, I did." He turned his back to the view and leaned against the railing, arms crossing neatly. "Your reputation precedes you far more than you seem to realize."
Ryan smirked, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. "I could say the same for you. 'Serfence the Black,' former Executioner of the Clock Tower. Sounds like something straight out of a goddamned spy novel."
He shot the man a sideways glance. "Seriously, they oughta make a movie about you."
Serfence allowed the faintest curve of a smile. Ryan continued.
"Guess that makes us two souls with a history steeped in blood and bad decisions." He took another drag, exhaled. "Well, since we're already up here—how about we fill in the blanks?"
"Fair enough," Serfence said mildly. "You start."
"Alright then."
Ryan straightened. "From what I gathered, you joined the Tower straight out of school. Top of your class. Auror for a while, all clean and proper. Then… you went dark. Recruited into some black ops program. Trigger man for the Tower's dirtiest secrets. Then, just like that—retired."
He turned toward Serfence, narrowing his eyes. "So, tell me—what gives? How does a golden boy from Excalibur end up as one of the Tower's most infamous assassins?"
"The same reason that drives most men to bloodshed," Serfence said softly, lifting his hand and staring at it as though it still bore the weight of what he'd done. "Vengeance."
Ryan glanced at him, a curious brow raised.
"I was in love once," Serfence continued. "She was my world. My light in all that madness. But fate—fickle thing that it is—is as cruel as the men who took her from me."
His hand curled into a fist. "I made them pay, of course. All but the one who truly mattered. The one behind it all walked free. The law couldn't touch him. The Tower wouldn't. So, I waited. Played the long game."
His tone remained even, almost clinical, though his eyes had darkened. "I've cast the Killing Curse more times than I care to admit. So many, in fact, I could do it in my sleep. Without a wand. Without a word."
A grim smile tugged at his lips. "Eventually, they gave me the mask—white porcelain, cold and clean. I became an Executioner. The Tower's blade. I killed those too powerful, too protected, too precious to be prosecuted."
He turned slightly, looking not at Ryan, but through him.
"A soulless killer, doing as I was told… until his name finally landed on my desk."
Ryan said nothing—just took another long drag from his cigarette.
"I didn't hesitate," Serfence said. "No quarter. No mercy. The man I'd hunted for years was on his knees, weeping at my feet." He drew a breath. It hitched. "I held nothing back."
A bitter chuckle followed—dry and pained. "My only regret? I did it in front of his family. Made them watch as I showed him every horror I'd mastered. Every cruelty I'd been paid to perfect." He was quiet for a moment. "The next day, I turned in my badge… and never looked back."
Serfence folded his arms, his dark eyes fixed on the man beside him, waiting.
"Well," Ryan muttered with a crooked smile, "hell if I'm gonna top that story." He flicked ash from his cigarette and stared out over the city. "I was an orphan. One of the many kids whose parents were slaughtered by Death Eaters."
He paused, casting a glance toward Serfence. "Crazy, zealot bastards who bowed down to the Dark Lord like he was God incarnate. They left me breathing, too. Just because I was a—" he caught himself, jaw tightening, "—a pasquil. Like it was some kinda joke."
He took another drag and exhaled. "Grew up in the system. Cold beds, cold food, colder people. Until one day, this guy shows up. Clean suit, clean smile. Said I had a choice: keep wasting away like everyone else, or go with him and help change the world."
He let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Oh, we changed the world, alright. Just not the way I thought we would."
Serfence tilted his head. "They were recruiting children?" He raised an eyebrow, lips tight. "That's… diabolical."
"Yeah," Ryan muttered. "Looking back, it was." He leaned forward on the railing, the wind catching the smoke from his cigarette. "That's how I ended up in the Darkwatch. More specifically—Section Thirteen." He cast a sidelong glance at Serfence. "What we are. What we do. Probably not too far from what you used to."
Serfence listened silently, eyes sharp.
"You see, after the Dark Lord fell, both the Mundanes and the Wizarding world figured out what a lot of us already knew—that the so-called powers that be were useless. Corrupt. Complacent. Politicians who played both sides. Nobles who couldn't be touched by law."
Ryan's voice hardened. "So, the higher-ups—both Mundane and Magical—put together something off the books. A failsafe. An answer to what happens when monsters crawl out of the dark and no one's willing to stop them."
Serfence's brow furrowed slightly. "So, they built this… Darkwatch?"
"Pretty much," Ryan said with a nod. "Section Thirteen's the blade in the shadows. We're not wizards. Not in the traditional sense. We're pasquils—trained in modern warfare, armed with the kind of tools magic can't anticipate."
He gave a dry laugh. "You'd be surprised how many dark wizards don't know the difference between a bullet and a pebble. Can't tell a gun from a slingshot."
He flicked his cigarette away, watching the ember spiral into the wind. "And no amount of Protego's gonna stop an armor-piercing round to the chest."
"And Nosferatu?" Serfence asked, curiosity flickering behind his gaze. "I wager there's a story behind that rather dramatic moniker."
Ryan reached into his coat and pulled out a weathered cigarette case. He slipped one between his lips, lit it, and drew in a long breath before exhaling smoke into the night air.
"Nothing fancy," he said. "We were all given code names—part of the job. Each of us got tagged with the name of some beast or monster out of folklore. Mine just happened to be Nosferatu."
Serfence tilted his head. "And yet yours stands out."
Ryan shot him a grin, cocking a brow. "So does The Black."
Serfence's expression didn't change, but his silence said enough.
"I've earned a bit of a reputation," Ryan continued, taking another drag. "Not just for taking down dark wizards. Truth is, some of the worst monsters I've ever met didn't carry wands—they wore rosaries and quoted scripture."
Serfence's tone dropped slightly, thoughtful. "Yes… I've heard tales." There was a pause before he added, "So, what made you walk away?"
Ryan's grin faded into something quieter, more reflective. His gaze drifted down to the gold band on his finger. He turned it slowly, once.
"The opposite of you, really," he said softly. "I fell in love."
He gave a faint smile, almost wistful. "We helped each other put the past behind us. Built a quiet life. I retired, moved out west, started teaching high school of all things." He chuckled. "I was pretty damn good at it, too."
Serfence glanced over at him. "What happened?"
Ryan didn't look up.
"Cancer," he said, the word heavy in his throat. He took a breath and exhaled. "Funny, isn't it? I spent years preparing for the worst—figured some vengeful bastard would come for her eventually. Thought I'd go out in a blaze of gunfire, taking some lunatic with me."
He shook his head, eyes distant. "But no. It wasn't a curse, or a bullet. It was something I couldn't shoot… something I couldn't save her from."
"I'm sorry," Serfence said quietly.
"So am I," Ryan replied, meeting his gaze. "Truth is… I was a wreck. Crawled into a bottle of Jack and stayed there a while."
He gave a humorless chuckle, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. "I've been to more funerals than I can count, but hers… that one gutted me. For months, I didn't know if I wanted bacon with my eggs, let alone keep moving forward."
He shrugged, but the gesture lacked conviction.
"There were nights I'd just sit there, staring at my gun and the one bullet next to it. Thinking maybe that was the way out. But then I'd remember her, and I knew…" He shook his head, smiling faintly. "If I showed up on the other side like that, she'd kick my ass for the rest of eternity."
Serfence's expression didn't change, but the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly.
"Wasn't long after that old man Blaise came knocking," Ryan continued. "Said Excalibur could use a man like me." He exhaled a thin plume of smoke. "And well… the rest is history."
Serfence gave a small, disbelieving shake of his head.
"You know," he said, "Workner told me we'd have a lot in common. I laughed him off, of course." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's never going to let me live this down."
Ryan chuckled. "Well, if it's any consolation, I'm always good for a night out. Especially open mic night." He shot Serfence a grin. "Reckon you've got a decent voice too."
Serfence scoffed. "I'd rather not inflict that sort of suffering on the public. Believe me, I've tried."
He gave Ryan a sidelong look.
"Workner, on the other hand…"
"Oh, now you've got me real curious," Ryan said, smirking. "Don't tell me the man's got pipes."
"That would be an understatement," Serfence said dryly. "I've seen girls faint the moment he opens his mouth. It's... unnerving, really. Unfortunately, the man's cripplingly bashful."
Ryan chuckled. "Well, nothing a few shots of tequila can't fix."
Serfence blinked, the unfamiliar word catching him. "T...quila?"
"Tequila," Ryan said with a grin. "Strong stuff. Burns like hell and makes you feel invincible—until the next morning."
Serfence raised an eyebrow. "Charming."
"Don't worry," Ryan said, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Once this mess blows over, you get Workner to the bar—I'll handle the drinks."
Serfence smirked faintly. "A night out, then?"
"You better believe it," Ryan said, already imagining the chaos.
The two men fell into a companionable silence, standing shoulder to shoulder as the cool April breeze swept across the observatory. Below them, the city of Caerleon glowed faintly in the dark, flickers of firelight dancing like distant memories. For a while, neither said a word. And they didn't need to.
****
A tortured scream tore through the shattered streets, echoing across broken stone as fresh blood splattered the ground. The night sang with the screeching whir of a chainsword, its serrated teeth shrieking through bone and flesh alike. Another rebel fell—carved open like meat beneath a butcher's blade. Astrea had long lost count of how many had crumpled before her, and she no longer cared. With each kill, her grin stretched wider, a grotesque curl of euphoria etched into her face. Her eyes were wide, glassy with manic delight.
She and her Norsefire squad had been dispatched to the outskirts of the city after reports of a rebel cell taking shelter there. A few dozen bodies, maybe more. Young men—idealists, fools—who fancied themselves revolutionaries. They weren't soldiers. Just angry boys with stolen weapons and dangerous dreams. They thought themselves above the law. That the Tower might show them mercy.
But not Astrea.
Captain Vikander, newly promoted, believed in no such illusions. In her eyes, those who defied order were enemies of justice. And enemies of justice didn't deserve prison. Or due process. Or mercy.
They deserved to die.
Captain Clegane had believed that too. And she would carry on his legacy in fire and steel.
A shrill laugh ripped from her throat as she tore through another rebel, spraying gore across the smouldering remains of a barricade. The flames licked the sides of nearby buildings, casting long shadows as the last survivors fled down blood-slick alleys, stumbling over their own fear.
They could run. She hoped they would.
But they wouldn't get far.
Astrea stood over the corpses—limbs severed, entrails pooling like glistening ribbons across the ground. Horror froze on their faces, mouths still parted in screams that never finished. She took a slow breath, inhaling the iron-heavy scent of death, and smiled.
Content.
"Captain Vikander, ma'am!"
Astrea turned sharply. Blood still fresh across her face as one of the Norsefire guards approached at a jog. He halted and snapped to attention, saluting her with rigid formality. Shadow returned to his master's side, a severed hand clenched between his teeth as his blackened fur slicked with blood.
"We've rounded up the remaining rebels, but…" he hesitated.
Astrea arched a brow, wiping the blood from her cheek with a gloved hand. "But what, soldier? Speak."
"They're…" the guard swallowed, "mostly women and children, ma'am. Should I arrange transport to the holding facility?"
Astrea's gaze darkened.
"Soldier," she said evenly, her hand tightening around the hilt of her chainsword, "do you recall what I told you before the siege began?"
The man stiffened. "No survivors. No mercy."
Astrea tilted her head, eyes widening with something between amusement and madness. "And?"
He hesitated, sweat beading at his brow. "But, ma'am… they aren't rebels. They're innocent."
"There are no innocents," Astrea snapped, cutting across him like a blade. "They were here. In league. In silence. Complicit by proximity. That makes them accomplices." Her voice lowered to a cold whisper. "And accomplices to treason are enemies of justice. And enemies of justice—deserve death."
She took a step forward, her sword lifting ever so slightly—just enough for the guard to understand the threat beneath her words. "Or do you intend to defy my direct orders?"
Shadow let out a low, guttural growl, lips curling back to reveal a glint of sharp fangs as he bared his teeth at the guard.
The soldier paled. "No, ma'am. Understood."
He saluted once more and turned quickly, disappearing into the smoke-choked street.
Astrea inhaled deeply, tilting her face to the burning sky above. Blood still clung to her skin, drying in the heat.
A serene smile crossed her face.
"Watch me, Captain Clegane," she whispered. "I'll make you proud."