Asriel's gaze swept across the room. The moment stretched taut as a bead of sweat traced down Rowena's temple. Her fingers inched toward her wand. Then his eyes snapped back to her.
She froze.
"Whatever stories you've heard," Asriel said, stepping forward, "I'm not here to bleed every Ravenclaw dry. Despite your loyalties."
Rowena's words cut through the air. "Is that what you call what happened? Putting Laxus and Bran in the hospital?"
"The hospital," he said coolly, "was a kindness. A mercy, if you like." His head tilted slightly. "The alternative was a slab in the morgue." He rolled his shoulders, the weight in his posture loosening but his presence remained coiled, dangerous.
"I'll admit, it would've been easy. Bran may have bartered what was left of himself to the Tower. Just like so many in your bloodline, but a part of me still remembers when we called each other friends."
A breath passed. Asriel gave a dry, mirthless chuckle. "Stupid of me, really."
Then, a faint smile tugged at his lips—casual, disarming. It eased the tightness in Rowena's shoulders.
"Back when we were students, Bran never shut up about his precious little sister," he said. "Laxus used to tease him mercilessly for it. I, on the other hand, always thought it was a bit… unsettling." He chuckled again, arms folding across his chest. "But now that I've met you, I get it. His stories didn't do your beauty justice."
Rowena blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Th-thanks. I… suppose?"
Asriel's gaze drifted to Isha. "I was heading back when I saw the aftermath. Dead Norsefire soldiers everywhere, what looked like a heap of shredded meat. Not to mention, it looks as if someone crashed an airship into half the block."
"Would you believe me if I told you that was the work of one girl?" Isha asked, a wry smirk on her lips.
He stared at her. "You're shitting me."
She simply gestured to Rowena.
"Helga. My friend," Rowena said quietly, her eyes falling. "Norsefire killed people close to her… and she… lost control."
"You should've seen it," Isha added, glancing at the others. "What she did to those guards… and their captain…"
Asriel raised an eyebrow. "She still breathing?"
"Barely," Isha said. "But when she wakes up, she'll probably wish she wasn't." She leaned back against the wall. "What I don't get is how she just shrugged off the Killing Curse. They hit her with it more than once and she kept coming."
"Well… that's because Helga's part Jotnar," Rowena said, causing both heads to snap toward her.
"As in, Giant?" Asriel asked.
Rowena nodded. "What the Norse called Giants. Beyond their inhuman strength, they're completely immune to magic—including the Killing Curse." She hesitated. "It also explains why she's absolutely hopeless at spellwork."
"You say that like it's a curse," Asriel replied. "There are people in the Congregation who'd kill for an ability like that."
"It's not as glamorous as it sounds," Rowena said. "When I say she's immune to magic, I mean all of it. That includes healing spells. So, if she's injured, there's no quick fix—no potions, no charms. She has to heal the old-fashioned way. What would take a wizard minutes takes her days, if not weeks."
"When you put it like that," Isha murmured, "it sounds more like a liability than a gift."
"No power worth having comes without a price," Asriel said quietly, his gaze dropping to his hand. He stared at it for a moment before curling his fingers into a fist. "We know that better than most."
His gaze then lifted, expression set in cold resolve. "Astrea Vikander has fallen. That leaves only Hartshorne and Burgess—the final two pieces on the board." His eyes shifted to Isha. "It's time."
"Time? Time for what?" Rowena asked, startled.
Isha nodded firmly. "Do what you need to do, Asriel," she said. "For Gunnar. For Orgrim. For all of us—for everything they stole from our hands."
Asriel turned to Rowena. "I know you've got questions and I promise, the answers will come. But right now, we move. And I won't lie, striking at the Tower means setting your family's legacy ablaze. You've tethered yourself to what it's become. A monument to control, built on the backs of the innocent. I only hope your name survives the storm when the flames go out."
Rowena closed her eyes and placed a hand to her chest. When they opened again, they burned with conviction.
"You're right," she said softly. "The Tower has hurt you—all of you. It's brought death and ruin to this city, and to people who never deserved it." She looked toward the window. "I've seen the true face of Lamar Burgess. I know now he's not a visionary. He's a madman clinging to power by any means."
Her eyes returned to Asriel. "I'm ashamed to admit I once called him Uncle. So did Bran. At first, I thought I'd been mistaken. That the man I knew had changed. But now I see the truth. I never knew him at all."
She straightened. "The Ravenclaws have always stood with the Tower—the true Tower. The one built in the name of justice, not the rot that's taken root in its halls. When this is over, I have no doubt that we'll be cast out with the rest of it. We'll be called traitors. Pariahs. But if that's the price of redemption. Of restoring what the Tower was meant to be—then so be it."
Her voice steadied. "And I believe my family would stand with me."
Both Asriel and Isha shifted, their postures easing, brows raised in mild surprise at Rowena's words. Asriel let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head with a trace of admiration.
"Well," he said, "now I understand Bran's obsession with you."
He stepped back, his gaze softening. "Stay here for the night. Get some rest. At first light, take your friend and head for Excalibur."
Rowena hesitated. "What about Norsefire?"
"With their captain out of commission, they'll be scattered," Isha replied. "Whatever command structure they had probably collapsed the moment your friend put her down cold. And Hartshorne? He may be efficient, but he's just one man."
Asriel nodded. "They're disorganized and running on fumes. And knowing Burgess, he won't call for reinforcements from the capital. Doing so would raise questions he's not ready to answer. Questions he can't afford. Not from the Wizarding Council, and most certainly not from King Uther."
He turned back to Rowena, his expression softer now, touched by something almost wistful. "This might be the last time we speak, Miss Ravenclaw. If you see your brother again, tell him… I wish things had turned out differently."
Before Rowena could reply, his body dissolved into a swirl of black smoke and glowing embers, vanishing into the night.
Isha stood in his absence, brushing dust from her coat as she turned back toward the window. "Get some sleep," she murmured. "I'll keep watch for a while before joining Asriel."
Rowena lingered for a moment, then drew a breath and lay back on the couch. She closed her eyes. Despite the storm outside and the fire in her mind, sleep found her quickly—and for the first time in days, it held her gently.
****
The soft thunk of the car door closing behind him felt like a quiet verdict. Bran's lime-green eyes swept upward, taking in the sheer scale of the manor before him—a residence on the outskirts of Camelot so grand, even Ravenclaw Manor would pale in comparison. It looked less like a home and more like a castle, sprawling across the field with cultivated precision. Manicured gardens bloomed with bright flowers and hedges sculpted to near perfection. The walls were clad in earthy stone. Rooftops trimmed in clean grey granite. Gleaming windows stretched two stories high, veiled with deep crimson curtains. At the heart of the courtyard stood a wide stone fountain, its centerpiece a statue of a blindfolded elven woman, one hand gripping a sword, the other a scale.
Bran straightened the lapels of his suit. The polished pebbles underfoot shifted slightly as he stepped forward.
Laxus let out a low whistle beside him. "Damn… this guy knows how to live," he said, glancing up. "Hell, I could park the Dryfus estate inside this place and still have room for a swimming pool."
"Given the circles he operates in, I'm not surprised," Bran replied, adjusting his glasses. "But Macon Duchannes remains as elusive as ever. I've combed through every contact I have—none of them can tell me anything beyond what he is. Not who."
"So basically, the guy's got his business face locked in twenty-four seven." Laxus folded his arms. "Either he's a real smooth bastard, or the best poker player in Avalon."
The front doors opened with a low, weighted creak—thick, ornate, black steel trimmed in glass. A man stood in the entryway, elven, sharply dressed in a tailored tuxedo. Not a crease out of place, every gold button polished to a faultless shine.
"Mister Ravenclaw. Mister Dryfus." His voice was gravelly but composed. "The master is expecting you. If you'll follow me." He gestured with an open hand.
Bran and Laxus exchanged a look.
"Well," Laxus muttered under his breath, "into the lion's den we go."
And with that, they stepped through the towering doors into the unknown.
****
The interior was just as breathtaking as the manor's grand exterior. High alabaster walls rose overhead, adorned with framed masterpieces—some of which Bran immediately recognized as rare, priceless works from renowned artists long forgotten by time. Ornate display cabinets lined the halls, filled with artifacts collected from across Avalon and, perhaps, beyond. The wooden floors gleamed beneath their feet, lacquered to a mirror shine and accented by richly woven carpets of exotic origin.
Laxus turned on the spot, eyes wide in admiration. "Damn," he muttered. "This place is a museum with bedrooms."
Warm amber light poured from crystal sconces set into the walls, reflecting off the wrought iron chandelier suspended by black chains above the grand hall. A sweeping spiral staircase curled elegantly toward the upper floor, the centerpiece of the room's grandeur.
"This way, if you'd please," the butler said, motioning for them to follow.
They were guided through a series of opulent rooms—each one seemingly more extravagant than the last—until they reached an open set of doors leading to a wide verandah. Beyond it stretched a vast, open field framed by distant forests and mountains. The waning sun cast shadows across the stone terrace.
At a wrought-iron table sat an elven man, relaxed, a book in one hand and a porcelain teacup in the other. He looked to be in his middle years, though the greying streaks in his otherwise thick black hair suggested more age than he let on. His tanned face bore soft lines of experience, rare for his kind. He wore a crisp white shirt, half unbuttoned at the collar, and well-fitted brown slacks paired with polished loafers.
"Mister Ravenclaw and Mister Dryfus, my Lord," the butler announced with a slight bow.
"Excellent. Thank you, Clarence," the elven man replied smoothly, setting down his book and slipping off a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. His sapphire eyes met theirs with quiet intensity. "See to dinner, won't you? I've worked up quite the appetite—and I suspect our guests have as well."
"At once, sir," Clarence nodded before disappearing silently into the manor.
The elven man rose to his feet, extending a hand with measured grace. "No need for formalities, I imagine," he said. "Macon Duchannes."
"A pleasure," Bran said, taking the offered hand with a firm shake. Laxus followed suit, giving Macon a nod as their hands clasped.
"I suppose you already know why we're here," Bran continued.
"I've been brought up to speed," Macon replied, gesturing toward the two empty chairs at the table. "Please, sit."
The two obliged, settling in as Macon eased back into his own seat with the sort of calm only age and power could afford.
"I must admit," Macon went on, folding his hands before him, "seeing Winston's grandson tangled up in this sordid affair… it's what I'd call cruel irony. Though, in truth, with the way the Tower's evolved—twisted itself—I daresay it was always just a matter of time."
His gaze lingered on Bran, cool and discerning.
"My grandfather kept it hidden for years—Lamar's betrayal, the crimes committed under the guise of justice, the law twisted to serve one man's ambition." Bran drew a slow breath before exhaling. "I always knew the Tower was flawed… but I never imagined the extent of the rot. The corruption. The lives destroyed." His fists tightened in his lap. "Perhaps my grandfather believed silence was the lesser evil. But I won't make the same mistake."
"Damn right," Laxus added, folding his arms. "The bastard's turned Caerleon into a warzone. Got people being dragged off the streets like cattle, thrown in cells just for lookin' the wrong way." He scoffed. "And don't even get me started on Norsefire. That whole outfit's a death cult with a badge."
Macon exhaled slowly, the weight of his words pressing into the air between them. "I'm well aware of what's transpired in Caerleon—and the chain of events that led us here." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp. "I'm also aware of a particular acquaintance of yours… and the power he commands."
That gave both Bran and Laxus pause. Their eyes flicked to each other, surprised.
"You see," Macon went on, "when the Wizarding Council appointed me Regent, it wasn't out of favor or chance. The truth is—I'd been watching Lamar Burgess long before he ever climbed into that chair."
Bran straightened, startled. Laxus raised an eyebrow.
"There's an old adage," Macon said calmly. "A man's ambition should never outpace his worth. And Lamar… had ambition. The sort that burns through obstacles without care for the ash it leaves behind." He folded his hands together, fingertips pressed in quiet thought. "We've never met properly—he and I—but I know the man. And more importantly, I know how he thinks."
He smiled faintly, without warmth. "Lamar is not one to simply occupy power. He feeds on it. Greed and resentment drive him—insatiable, relentless. The world itself wouldn't satisfy him." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "And so he builds. Brick by brick. Body by body. But even the cleverest rats leave a trail—breadcrumbs, gleaming in the moonlight for those who know where to look."
"That being said," Macon continued, "the man has, in truth, cultivated a near-impeccable reputation. Particularly among those perched in high places. Whether by cunning manipulation or simply the weight of his so-called accomplishments, I couldn't say with certainty."
He allowed a beat to pass, the weight of his next words drawing in the air.
"And that brings us back to what I said moments ago: cruel irony," Macon said, eyes distant. "That the very foundations he spent decades fortifying. The network of loyalties, the web of favors and fear, should begin to crack beneath the weight of one ghost from his past. A man he condemned to the gallows, buried in the recesses of memory, dismissed and forgotten."
Macon's gaze sharpened. "In his arrogance, he saw himself as untouchable. Now, he has no choice but to watch the edifice he built crumble around him."
He paused again. "What I find truly cruel… is that the reckoning came at the hands of Asriel Valerian. A man who deserved none of the suffering this world heaped upon him."
"You're Godsdamned right he didn't," Laxus cut in sharply. "Neither did his girl. Nor her family. And believe me—"
Bran felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as the air shifted, a faint crackle of energy pulsing in the space between them. Tiny arcs of electricity danced across Laxus' fingertips as he clenched his fists. "If it weren't for what I stand to lose. Those I care about—I'd have buried Lamar Burgess the day I learned the truth."
Macon's response came not with alarm, but a measured, knowing smile. "Friendship is a precious thing, isn't it, Mister Dryfus?" he said calmly. "I've forged many ties in my lifetime. Acquaintances, allies, the occasional strategic connection. But friends?" His gaze lingered thoughtfully. "Those I could count on one hand."
He turned to Bran, the smile fading into something more guarded. "Which is why trust—true trust—is not something I extend without cause."
"I wouldn't expect you to," Bran replied evenly, slipping a hand into his coat. He retrieved a small black device, no more than two inches long, and placed it gently on the table between them. "Everything we've uncovered. Every thread we've followed. It's all here."
"Diligent as ever," Macon said, his gaze steady as it settled on Bran. "I've long followed the storied path of the Ravenclaws. Every generation, a stalwart of the Tower. Beacons of law, tradition, and legacy."
He paused, exhaling lightly. "What befell your grandfather was nothing short of abhorrent but I've always admired your father, Roland. He refused to let Winston's shadow swallow him. Instead, he forged his own legacy. One of steel and principle." Macon tilted his head slightly, the light catching the sharp angles of his face. "Which brings me to the question you must have asked yourself—have you truly considered the ramifications of what you're doing?"
Bran narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure I take your meaning."
Macon leaned back, crossing one leg neatly over the other, steepling his fingers atop his knee. "To expose Lamar Burgess is to set fire to the very foundation your family helped build. The Tower would not survive the blow. Everything the Ravenclaws have gained, every pillar laid by your ancestors, reduced to ash in the court of public opinion."
His words deepened, edged with gravity. "A scandal of this magnitude would shatter what little faith remains. And I assure you, not even Wilhelm Reinhardt, Gods rest his soul, could have salvaged the dignity of an institution so thoroughly gutted."
"So, I ask you, Mister Ravenclaw. Are you prepared to be the one who bears the weight of burning your family's legacy to the ground?"
"What kind of question is that?" Laxus snapped, leaning forward as his fists clenched. "You don't get to put this on—"
But Bran raised a hand, silencing him without a word. His eyes remained fixed on Macon.
"You're right about one thing, Mister Duchannes," he said. "I've given this a great deal of thought. And I won't pretend the idea of being remembered as the Ravenclaw who disgraced his house sits easily with me." He drew a steady breath. "It doesn't. In fact, it haunts me."
His gaze dropped briefly to the device resting on the table between them. "But that weight is nothing compared to the guilt I carry—knowing I stood idle while darkness festered behind our walls. That I upheld a vision of justice so warped it devoured the innocent. That in my silence, I became complicit."
He looked up again, his expression sharpened by conviction. "We all carry that stain, whether we choose to admit it or not. It's a burden we must bear."
Bran's jaw tightened. "Yes, Burgess's Tower may fall. Let it. Let it crumble into nothing and take his rot with it. But from its ruins, we'll rebuild. We must." His words steadied. "My grandfather believed the Tower could be more than a monument to power—it could be a beacon of true justice. Reinhardt believed the same."
He nodded once. "And so do I."
A beat of silence lingered before Macon's lips curled into a smile.
"That, my boy, is the right answer," he said, lifting the device from the table and weighing it briefly in his palm. With a smooth motion, he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. "Though, I imagine this conversation would be far more agreeable over a warm meal and a glass of fine wine."
He gestured toward the manor with a light sweep of his hand. "I trust you have a taste for trout? Caught them myself at dawn. Still wriggling when the cook took them in."
Bran and Laxus stood, the latter's brow still furrowed with thinly veiled impatience. But a single glance from Bran was enough to still him.
As they followed Macon back inside the manor, Bran allowed himself the faintest breath of relief. They weren't in the clear yet but they were halfway there. Now came the final stretch and every step counted.
****
Vikki Danvers felt the tension in her cheeks finally ease as the smile she'd worn for hours slipped away. The overhead spotlights dimmed. The red lights on the cameras blinked out. Crew members moved in with quiet efficiency, breaking down the set piece by piece.
The studio had been her sanctuary once—her stage, her pride. For years, Vikki was the trusted face of Caerleon's premier news network, delivering the life and breath of the city to the masses. She'd memorized every inch of the place: the searing heat of the spotlights overhead, the pitch-black walls that cloaked the set like theatre curtains, and the steady rhythm of a multi-racial crew weaving through cables and equipment with practiced precision. It had once felt like a well-oiled machine. A symphony.
Now, it was a gilded cage.
Everything she had built, every ounce of credibility she'd earned, had been reduced to farce. Her broadcasts, once rooted in truth, now served as a leash—repurposed to peddle the Clock Tower's propaganda, to bleach bloodstains from stone and spoon-feed sanitized lies to a population already choking on them.
And all of it, by order of Caerleon's self-proclaimed sovereign: Lamar Burgess. The man who sat a throne of fear, flanked by jackbooted thugs and draped in a cloak of stolen authority. Vikki had pushed back. Loudly. Publicly. But the studio's executives had caved without a fight, eager to keep their necks out of the noose and their families untouched.
In the end, she had done the same. As much as it made her sick, Vikki had a family too. With a sharp scrape of wood against tile, the young elven woman pushed back her chair and stood. Her stilettos clicked with purpose on the polished obsidian floor as she rounded the desk, her brow furrowed, eyes steely and tight.
A halfling assistant rushed up to meet her. "Miss Danvers, you have a—"
"Not now, Clarice." Vikki waved her off without a glance. "Cancel the rest of my day."
"But your interview with Director Burgess—"
"Then offer him my sincerest apologies," she snapped, not slowing her stride as she stormed into the corridor. "Tell him I'll reschedule. Preferably sometime after I've buried a heel in his smug, lying face and served the sentence for it."
Clarice blanched, hurrying to keep up. "I—I don't think I can say that, Miss Danvers—"
Vikki wrenched open the door to her dressing room, stepped inside, and turned sharply. "Then make something up!" she snarled, slamming the door in her assistant's face.
Clarice jumped at the impact, then quietly mumbled, "Yes, ma'am."
****
Vikki stepped into her dressing room. The walls, once a source of pride, now seemed to mock her. Photographs lined the space. Her smiling alongside dignitaries, celebrities, and war heroes, each frozen grin framed in polished glass. Some were signed, others inscribed with praise. In the corner, a bouquet of flowers, once vibrant, hung limp and browning at the edges. Her desk overflowed with fan mail, neat stacks of envelopes bearing well-wishes, admiration, and hope.
On the far wall stood a rack of dresses and suits, lined up like costumes for a play she no longer believed in.
She pulled out a chair and slumped into it, lowering herself before the dresser. For a moment, she stared at her reflection before burying her face in her hands. The weight in her chest pressed deeper. What she had become. What they'd made her become. Gnawed at her like carrion feeding on guilt. The Tower had taken her voice and bent it into a weapon. A tool of deception. And she had let them.
She could endure the death of her name. She could stand a ruined reputation. If that was the price for keeping her family safe, so be it. But what haunted her most was the hope, fragile and flickering, that one day, Caerleon might forgive her. Might understand that a blade had been held to her throat, and she had sung not out of loyalty, but out of fear.
As she lifted her head, her breath caught.
In the mirror before her, a shape loomed. A figure. A man.
She froze, then turned sharply, heart pounding.
"You know," the man said, his words calm but laced with something deeper, something familiar, "I imagined you'd end up a great many things after Excalibur, Vikki. But a news anchor? That one never crossed my mind."
Her lips parted. "Asriel," she whispered. "So, it's true."
"Every word," he replied, stepping closer.
In a blur, she closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around him in a desperate, breathless embrace. He returned it—quiet, steady, warm.
"It's been so long," she said into his shoulder. "I never got the chance to say goodbye. I never got the chance to say I was sorry."
He held her gently, letting her linger a moment longer before she pulled back. His expression had softened. His eyes shadowed with pain and understanding.
"I never believed them," she said. "I told everyone you were innocent. I knew you were innocent. But no one would listen." Her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt. "What they did to you. What they did to Tala." A soft sob escaped her. "By the Gods, Tala."
"I know," Asriel murmured, drawing a sharp breath. "I couldn't help her. I couldn't save her."
Vikki stepped back, brushing the tears from her eyes, her expression tight. "Tala was my best friend," she said quietly. "Even after all the bullying, the pain I put her through… she forgave me. Gave me a chance to make it right."
She let out a bitter, breathless laugh. "And I remember the day you put the fear of the Gods in me. I wanted revenge after that. Thought I was justified." Her voice cracked. "By the Gods, I was such a damned fool."
"The past is past, Vikki," Asriel said gently. "You changed. And you're all the better for it."
But Vikki shook her head. "It's more than that, Asriel. When my washed up drunk of a father sold me into slavery to pay off his debts, everyone I knew abandoned me. My so-called friends, even my boyfriend." Her hand drifted to her neck, fingers brushing the skin as if tracing a memory. "The moment that collar went on, I wasn't a person anymore. Just property. A thing."
Her eyes lowered to the floor. "If it weren't for you and Tala, I wouldn't be here."
A faint smile ghosted across Asriel's face. "You know, Tala threatened to leave me if the Midnighters didn't break you out." He rubbed the back of his neck, almost sheepish. "Took half our coffers to buy your freedom. But I never saw it as a loss. Tala wanted you saved—that was all the reason I needed."
Vikki swallowed hard, blinking fast. "I can never repay you. Either of you."
"Maybe you can," Asriel said. He reached into his coat and drew a small black device, sleek and polished, its surface catching the amber glow from the overhead lights.
Vikki's gaze locked onto the device, one brow slowly arching. "Asriel… is that what I think it is?"
"It's everything," he said, his jaw tightening. "Everything I've gathered to burn the Tower to ash. To tear down the rotten empire Lamar Burgess and his demons have built. Brick by poisoned brick. Over decades of betrayal and blood."
He held the device out toward her. "Every crime. Every dirty deal. Every name sold and every soul ruined. And the crown jewel of it all, the truth Burgess had buried in exchange for the power he now wields." His tone lowered, weighted with purpose. "I've held onto this for too long. Swore to Keenah that I'd protect it with my life, and it's high time Avalon sees the man for the monster he truly is."
"I know the reach of your station," Asriel said. "Every city, every corner of the world hears your voice. All I need you to do… is plug this in and hit play."
He paused, gaze distant for a moment. "When they said I died, they weren't wrong. At the edge of life, I made a deal. Traded my soul for power. A chance to set the wrong things right. And now the debt's come due." He looked at her, the weight of everything he carried etched in his eyes. "I'm running out of time, Vikki. I need your help… we both do."
Vikki stood still, her gaze locked on his. "Is it true?"
She closed her eyes, drawing a breath, then opened them again. "Was it him?" she asked. "Was it Burgess who had Tala and her family killed?"
Asriel didn't answer. He didn't have to.
His silence hung heavier than any confession.
Vikki's jaw clenched. She reached forward and took the device from his hand, her fingers steady. "Follow me," she said, already turning toward the door.
Without a word, Asriel followed.