Dawn broke over Caerleon like a blade splitting the heavens, the rising sun casting its searing glow across the skyline. Amber and crimson bled through the parting clouds, chasing the shadows from the rooftops and towers. Yet within the highest floor of the precinct, where the Director's office loomed over the waking city, the light was barred entry. Heavy curtains hung thick and unmoving, sealing the room in oppressive darkness. The air was dense with the stench of stale cigar smoke and watered-down whiskey, clinging to every surface like regret.
Lamar sat hunched on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked and pressed to his lips. His eyes, wide and rimmed with red, stared through the shadows, haunted and unblinking. Around him, three bottles of whiskey lay drained of their poison, a fourth cradled between his boots, half gone. Ashes mottled the surface of the coffee table, mingling with tobacco torn from butchered cigars—some half-burned, others dismembered in frustration. The scene was less a living space than the remains of a man unravelling.
He hadn't slept. Not even for a moment.
The footage played again and again in his mind, a merciless loop of ruin. Each frame dredged up memories he had buried beneath years of calculated deceit. Memories of Dah'Tan, of fire and screams and silence. He had covered every angle. Every variable accounted for. Every loose end burned, buried, or bought. And yet, here it was, all of it clawing its way to the surface like rot beneath marble.
He wiped at his face with a shaking hand, his breath ragged. Sweat clung to his skin despite the chill in the room. For all his cleverness, for all his maneuvering, Lamar Burgess—Director of the Clock Tower, had never felt cornered. Not like this. Now he sat alone, the king on a chessboard stripped of pawns, bishops, and knights, surrounded by enemies closing in with every tick of the clock.
He could spin the lockdown. He could justify the detention centers. He had always known how to twist truth into something palatable for the Council. But not this. Not the footage. There was no lie bold enough, no rhetoric sharp enough, to unmake what the world had seen.
His stomach churned, twisted into a knot of dread. He knew the Regent was already in motion. The silence he sat in now was not peace—it was the breath before the blow.
And the call would come. Soon.
The soft, persistent beeping of the communication orb cut through the silence like a blade, its rhythm clawing at Lamar's frayed nerves. His eyes snapped to it, resting by the ashtray, half-buried beneath a pile of crushed cigar stubs and grey ash. A low, sharp breath escaped him as he reached out, hand trembling, fingers brushing past the scattered tobacco before tapping the surface.
The orb floated upward, humming faintly as it cast a pale emerald screen into the air. And there, projected in sharp relief, was the face of an aged elven man—noble in bearing, suit immaculate, his graying hair swept back with meticulous precision. Though his expression remained impassive, the air around him bristled with quiet authority, and unmistakable disdain.
"Director Burgess," he said. There was no warmth in the greeting—only formality layered with frost.
Lamar squinted at the projection, suspicion hardening his brow. "Yes? Who the hell are you, and what do you want?"
The elven man arched a brow, almost pityingly. "Let's not insult each other with charades. You know very well who I am." He gave a slight incline of his head. "Though, in fairness, while I am intimately acquainted with your many… endeavors, you are not yet properly acquainted with mine."
A pause. The disdain sharpened.
"My name is Macon Duchannes. You may know me, in more official terms, as the Grand Regent."
"Heh." Lamar's sneer deepened, his eyes narrowing to slits as he leaned forward. "So, you're the peck who's been a bloody thorn in my side all this time. Finally tired of whispering from the shadows, are we? Pleased to see you've managed to find a backbone. Though I suspect it won't hold for long once the real game begins."
Macon's gaze darkened ever so slightly. "In light of recent revelations, Director," he said coolly, "I strongly recommend you hold fast to what little dignity remains. If not for yourself, then at least for the office you've sullied."
"My sincerest apologies, Regent," Lamar growled, rising from the couch like a beast disturbed, "if I couldn't give a damn about who you are or the pompous title you carry."
He jabbed a finger toward the orb. "As far as I'm concerned, you're a caricature in a gilded frame. A glorified mouthpiece for the Council, with their hands so far up your arse I'm surprised you can speak at all without coughing parchment."
He sneered. "I am Lamar Burgess. Director of the Clock Tower. I answer to the Council—not to a self-important bureaucrat pretending to matter."
Macon, unshaken, simply steepled his fingers, his expression as calm as still water.
"Well," he said, "it appears the mask of civility has well and truly slipped. The more you speak, Mister Burgess, the more you confirm every sordid tale I've heard whispered behind closed doors. Arrogant. Delusional. Dangerous."
He leaned forward now, the leather creaking beneath him as he rested his elbows atop the polished surface of his desk. "Allow me to clarify, since you seem confused. I was appointed Regent by the Wizarding Council—unanimously. Which means my word is their will. And by that authority, you do indeed answer to me."
Macon's gaze sharpened.
"And with your name now soaked in scandal, your empire crumbling beneath you, and the world watching… you might want to rethink your tone. Because your fate, Mister Burgess, now rests squarely in my hands. And I assure you—you're not making it easy to be merciful."
A cold silence settled between them, tense and oppressive. Lamar's gaze dropped to the floor, his chest rising and falling as his shoulders began to shake—then came the laughter. Low at first, then rising, unhinged and manic. It rolled from his chest in jagged bursts, his palm pressed to his face as if trying to muffle it, though the madness only deepened.
"Mercy?" he rasped, eyes narrowing into pinpricks. "Mercy?!"
With a sudden snarl, he kicked the coffee table with all the force in his body. The wood cracked against the floor as it tipped over, sending ash, tobacco, and glass bottles skittering in every direction. A whiskey tumbler shattered into gleaming shards, skidding across the marble like blood-slick ice.
"Be thankful," Lamar snarled, "that this miraculous little orb keeps you at a distance. That it keeps you safe behind your polished desk and your titles, you spineless, sanctimonious coward. Because if you were here—in this room—you'd be the one on your knees, begging for mercy. Mine."
Yet Macon didn't flinch. Not even a blink.
Lamar straightened, chest heaving. "But you're right. Civility is wasted here." He spat the word like poison. "This call was never meant to be civil. It was never about pretense or innocence. The courts? They're a farce. A circus dressed in robes and powdered wigs. I crafted that farce. I turned justice into theatre, and the Council applauded."
He raised a trembling finger, pointing directly at the projection. "What you want… is a confession. Something to nail me with. Something to justify the noose you're so eager to tie."
His eyes lit with a fevered gleam. "So here it is. Yes. I did it. I orchestrated Dah'Tan. Every ounce of it. Every wretched, meticulous detail was mine."
He let the silence hang, savoring the weight of his confession before continuing.
"I fed McGrath his fantasy like wine to a drunk. Whispered sweet promises of justice and recompense into the ear of that lumbering fool—him and his ragged band of relics clinging to their old glories and pain like moths to flame. All it took was the right words and a little push, and they marched straight into the trap."
He straightened, spine rigid, gaze burning.
"I watched as the city lit up like a bonfire. Heard the screams, the crackle of skin and bone. And when it was done, when the smoke choked the heavens and the bodies were ash—I slept."
A cruel smile played at the edge of his lips.
"I slept soundly."
On the other side of the screen, Macon's expression darkened, the creases at his eyes deepening, his fingers folding more tightly together—like a gate slowly shutting on a man already condemned.
"You see, when Director Trench announced his retirement," Lamar began, "I knew the most powerful seat in the land was within reach. The throne I'd coveted since boyhood—there it was, ripe for the taking."
He paced slowly, as if each word drew breath from long-buried resentment. "But I also knew your blasted Council had already cast their lot with him—that wretched whoreson Winston. That simpering do-gooder with the smile of a saint and the spine of wet parchment."
His lip curled in disgust. "The celebrated hero who had not only the favor of those decrepit fossils you call councilors, but the Gods themselves, if you believe in such drivel."
Lamar's teeth clenched, fury rising like bile. "While I had to bleed and claw for the scraps of recognition, he was handed everything. Power, praise, prestige—served to him on a silver platter, all for no greater virtue than the name Ravenclaw and the blood in his veins."
He jabbed a finger at the orb. "No. I would not stand idle, watching the light shine on him while I was left to rot in the shadows." His voice dropped, colder now. "So, I made a choice. I seized an opportunity. I removed the greatest obstacle in my path—the man who had been a curse upon my every step. And in doing so, I claimed what was always meant to be mine."
He stepped closer to the orb, eyes gleaming with defiance. "For too long, I was overlooked. For too long, I was denied. But no more. No more."
"When they gave me that chair," Lamar said, "I didn't just restore the Tower's glory—I fortified it. I kept it sharp. Kept it strong. Kept Avalon safe."
Lamar's eyes narrowed, glassy with fury.
"For decades, I've held the line. Decades! While the rest of you played at politics and paraded in your silken robes, I faced the wolves at our door. Terrorists. Insurgents. Separatists. Regimes. I crushed them all. Bodies piled on the backs of the brave, evil ground to ash beneath my heels… and through it all, Avalon slept soundly in its cradle, none the wiser."
The man drew in a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring.
"And this?" His body trembled at the edge of disbelief. "This is the thanks I'm given?"
With a snarl, he kicked one of the empty whiskey bottles. It sailed through the air, shattering against the far wall in a burst of glass and fury.
"The Tower stands because of me!" he roared. "Avalon prevails because of me! I have stared into the face of true darkness, bled in its shadow, stood alone as the first, last, and only line of defense against the end of our world!"
He pointed a shaking finger at the orb. "And you—you!—a smug, gutless little parasite who's never known war, never heard the screams in the dark, never buried good men in the name of peace—you dare to sit there in your gilded chair and judge me?!"
Macon drew a long, steady breath, letting the silence settle like ash. His eyes closed briefly, then opened with a quiet weight behind them.
"Oh, how swiftly mortals presume to weigh the worth of others by what they see," he said. "You forget yourself, Burgess. I am an elf. I have lived through ages your kind can scarcely comprehend. I have watched kingdoms rise and crumble into dust. I have seen tyrants, zealots, and would-be gods alike—strung up by their ankles, or buried in shallow graves with coins pressed to their eyes."
His tone darkened.
"I've known war. Not the sort fought from behind a desk or barked from a balcony, but war in its rawest form. I've felt steel in my palm, the spray of blood across my face, the final tremor of a dying man as the light leaves his eyes. I have waded through trenches, shoulder-deep in the muck and the screams, and I have carried the broken bodies of my comrades back to camp—only to tell their wives, their husbands, their children, that they would never return."
His gaze sharpened, not loud, but cold.
"So do not speak to me of war. Do not insult me with your adolescent notions of sacrifice, as if your handful of decades gives you any right to preach to one who has seen centuries."
He allowed the silence to stretch a moment, then added, heavy as stone.
"But that aside… your efforts, your legacy—no one denies them. You held the Tower. You safeguarded Avalon. You faced horrors, yes. But that is not what damns you."
His tone dropped to a chilling calm.
"What damns you, Lamar, is that you knowingly and deliberately orchestrated the slaughter of thousands—civilians, innocents—all for power. And the most grotesque part of it all…"
A pause.
"…is how little you regret it."
Lamar's gaze darkened, his jaw rigid.
A cold, bitter laugh broke from Macon's lips—quiet at first, then tinged with something almost mournful.
"It's almost poetic, isn't it?" Macon said. "I've spent years rehearsing this very conversation in my head. Vowed I'd keep a clear head. That I'd be precise, measured. And yet here I am—failing at the final stretch."
He exhaled slowly, the tension visible in his shoulders.
"But since we're trading truths like old soldiers round a fire, allow me to share one of my own."
Lamar said nothing. His gaze was unblinking.
"You see, I care little for the bureaucracy of the Tower. The petty squabbles of the Three Bodies. Even the Council, with all their pomp and ceremony, rarely hold my interest." He waved a hand dismissively. "I've lived a long life. I find joy in simpler pursuits—quiet walks, the study of old texts… fishing."
Lamar scoffed, impatient, about to speak—but Macon's words overrode his.
"Truth be told, you were little more than a footnote to me. Yes, I knew of you. Heard the stories, the whispers, the bloodstains trailing behind every promotion. I found you distasteful, of course—but not worth the energy." A pause. "That was… until you made it personal."
Lamar's eyes flickered. First confusion, then faint recognition.
"Think back, Lamar," Macon said. "Years ago. An elf—a noblewoman—who dared to speak against you. Who saw through your veneer of civility. One who stood as an inconvenience… and paid the price for it."
The older man's expression shifted, recognition dawning like a slow sunrise through storm clouds.
"Yes," Macon hissed, his composure momentarily breaking. "Lady Gloreth the Fair. She was not some naive noble with delusions of grandeur. She was my heart… my light… meleth nîn. She believed in a better Avalon. The Crown City no longer ruled by fear and cruelty. She fought for the voiceless, the broken, the enslaved."
"But her vision threatened the rot beneath your Tower. The foundations built on blood and coin, and the comfort of your associates in the Slavers' Union. So, you had your mongrels butcher her in the dark. Strung up some poor soul to take the blame. Tied it off in a neat little bow and carried on as though she never existed."
He stood then, tall and grave. "When I learned the truth—I swore, by the Old Gods and all their might, that even if it took me to the edge of eternity, I would be your reckoning."
Macon leaned closer to the orb, the pale emerald light casting harsh shadows across his face. His eyes glowed faintly—haunted not by age, but by fury tempered over decades.
"I've spent years unearthing every sin, every bloodstained deed, every festering trace you left in your wake, all in the name of a Tower you've twisted into your personal altar," he said. His palms pressed against the table as he loomed forward. "You made it your weapon. Your temple. Your sanctuary."
His jaw tightened. "But let me tell you the truth, Lamar. Keenah Se'Lai wasn't acting on his own. He was following orders. Mine."
Lamar's eyes widened, his posture stiffening.
"Yes," Macon hissed. "It was I who set him upon you. I who pulled the thread that would unravel your wretched tapestry. And it is my burden to bear—that in doing so, I condemned him. I condemned his family. And that poor boy... just another lamb led to the slaughter, carved up in the name of your atrocities. Your ambition."
His gaze fell for a moment. "I sent them into the jaws of your cruelty, believing foolishly, that even a mongrel like you had limits. That there was a line you would not cross. That somewhere in the darkness that festers your soul, a shred of decency might still remain. But you bit deep. Gods forgive me… you did."
When his gaze lifted again, it burned.
"And now… here we are. You, the architect of Dah'Tan. The self-proclaimed king of a crumbling Tower. The tyrant of a dying legacy." A quiet pause. "And me—the arauke who's now your judge, jury… and executioner."
Macon's mouth curled into a tight, grim smile. "With your own words, you've sharpened the blade. You've knelt beneath it willingly. And I, Lamar, shall take no small satisfaction when I see it fall."
He inhaled slowly, then spoke with the full weight of law and vengeance behind him.
"By the authority vested in me by the Wizarding Council of Avalon, and in accordance with the Concord of the Three Bodies…" His words dropped, final. "Lamar Burgess, you are hereby stripped of your title and rank. You are relieved of all duties as Director of the Clock Tower, effective immediately."
He let the words settle before continuing.
"You will lift the lockdown, abolish martial law and order your forces to stand down. You will then surrender yourself to the custody of the Tower's envoy. And you will face judgment—before a jury of your peers, before the law you so gleefully betrayed."
Macon's smirk faded into something colder.
"And may it show you the mercy you never gave."
Once more, a bitter silence hung between them. Then, slowly, Lamar's lips curled into a twisted smirk. His eyes gleamed wide, no longer tethered by reason, his expression cracking with the weight of unraveling sanity. A harsh, humorless laugh tore from his throat.
"I see it now. I see it bloody clear." His voice rose, laced with contempt. "Everywhere I turn, vermin crawl from the woodwork—ghosts, pests, long-buried bones clawing through the soil. You. Valerian. The Ravenclaws. All of you wretched shades, thinking you've finally cornered the beast."
He dragged in a breath. Long, sharp, jagged, before his tone dropped, cold and calm like the eye of a storm.
"But you've shown your hand, Lord Regent, far too early. And I…" he tilted his head with the calm malice of a man who'd planned too many endings to count, "...I've yet to show mine."
Macon's brow twitched, faint but perceptible.
Lamar straightened his coat, his smirk never fading.
"You think you're dealing with a man," he said. "But I am far more. My blood pulses through the veins of the Tower. My bones laid its foundation. My flesh binds its walls. I am not some bureaucrat clinging to a title."
He stretched his arms wide.
"I am the Tower!"
Then, leaning closer to the screen, Lamar's eyes burned with the flame of a man who had long abandoned restraint.
"And so, I shall act as I always have—without hesitation, without apology," he growled. "I will not yield to authority. Not yours, not the blasted Council's, not anyone's. My power was not given. It was taken—earned in blood, sharpened through ruin, cemented by the bones of those who dared to stand in my way."
A cocky smirk twisted across his lips, his gaze daring the elven regent to refute him.
"And if you mean to take my chair, Duchannes… then you're welcome to try. But you'll find it's nailed beneath the weight of my cold, dead corpse."
He lifted a single finger, pointed with quiet menace.
"But be warned—when that day comes, the cost you'll pay for attempting to do so may be steeper than anything you or those withered relics on your Council ever imagined."
"Burgess," Macon said, hard and sharp with warning.
But Lamar was already reaching into the folds of his coat, producing a thick brass key that gleamed in the dim light.
"I leave my fate to the Gods now," he said. "Let them decide who falls... and who prevails."
He bowed, mockingly elegant.
"And I've no doubt we'll meet again, Lord Regent—but next time, there'll be no screen between us. Only the edge of my blade at your throat."
With a sardonic wave, Lamar vanished in a brilliant flash of light.
Macon sat back down in silence, eyes closed, head bowed ever so slightly. Then, he exhaled and muttered to himself.
"So be it."
****
The precinct pulsed with energy, a hive of movement and tension after the revelation that shattered Avalon the night before. Guards, Guardians, and Aurors moved through the corridors with grim focus, donning armor and strapping braces with practiced precision. The air was thick with the sharp tang of metal and oil, mingling with the low murmur of whispered commands and the click of buckles. Polished wands were slid into holsters, boots were laced tight, and helms clutched beneath arms like shields ready for war.
Their badges gleamed beneath the cold crystal lights that lined the vaulted ceilings—each one bearing the sigil of the Tower. Not as a symbol of a man, but of an ideal. An oath. Justice unclouded by the fangs of tyranny. But the serpent had slithered deep, coiling through its chambers, injecting poison into the very heart of the institution, threatening to rot it from the inside out.
Not today.
Bastion marched through the corridor like a drawn blade, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. Behind him followed ranks of the resolute—dozens upon dozens who had answered his call. Men and women who had not bowed to Burgess, who had wavered until the footage struck them blind with truth. Even the sycophants, once loud in praise and eager to lick the boot of power, were now silent, vanished, or already halfway to the border, running from the chains of consequence that now threatened to drag them to the abyss.
As Bastion approached the main hall, Frank joined him—his own force in tow, the two rivers of rebellion merging into a single, thundering tide. Together they descended the grand staircase, a wall of purpose, until they came to a halt mid-step.
At the base of the stairs, dozens of Norsefire guards stood waiting, shoulder to shoulder, clad in riot armor. Their black visors gleamed. Shields were slung on their backs, and their batons hung heavy at their hips. Tension thickened the air like smoke.
One of them stepped forward, a smirk curling across his lips—the leader, clearly. His armor bore a red sash at the shoulder, cracked and worn, but still bearing the mark of command.
"And where the hell do you lot think you're going?" he drawled. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're fixing to start yourselves a little coup."
Frank stepped up without hesitation, eyes burning. "You're damn right we are." His declaration cut through the air like steel. "Burgess ain't no hero. He's a damned murderer. And we're done falling in line for that bastard."
The Norsefire leader chuckled darkly, resting his hands casually on his belt. "Thought you might say that." His grin widened. "Sheriff was right on the money."
His eyes flicked between Bastion and Frank. "You didn't really think we'd miss you lot sniffing around City Hall, did you? You and that little half-breed you've got running errands." He leaned forward slightly. "You've made a lot of noise, boys. Time we put you down quiet."
Bastion's short sword hissed from its scabbard, the metallic rasp echoing like a death knell—the sharp trill of a reaper's scythe drawn to harvest.
"Go on, then. Try it!" he snarled, his stance squared, blade angled low and ready.
The air tensed, sharp as a knife's edge, as weapons were drawn in a synchronized, dangerous harmony. Wands snapped to aim, hilts gripped tight—every man and woman on the brink, the line between order and bloodshed growing thinner with each breath.
"I've been waiting for the excuse to send you Norsefire butchers to the morgue," Bastion shouted, the tip of his blade now glowing faintly, humming with latent power. "I swore never to raise my sword against a fellow badge—but you lot? I won't just make an exception. I'll damn well savor it."
"Big talk for a flea-bitten mutt," the Norsefire captain spat, wand locked on Bastion's heart. "Once I put an end to the Reinhardt line, the Tower'll be singing my name. Hell, Burgess might pin the medal on my chest himself."
He turned, eyes narrowing on Frank. "And you, Reagan? Is this how it ends for you? Old guard turned turncoat? A traitor, dragged from this hall with your head on a pike? Think of your legacy, old man—think of what they'll call you when they scrape your body off the stones."
Frank didn't flinch. His gaze steeled, mustache bristling ever so slightly as his gloved hand tightened around the hilt of the sword still resting in its sheath. The fury building behind his eyes was cold and focused, like the calm before a storm.
The Norsefire leader raised his voice, addressing the crowd.
"Like it or not, Burgess still holds the Tower!" he barked. "He is the Director. And his word—his law—remains!"
Frank's eyes moved slowly across the sea of faces behind him. He saw it—uncertainty flickering in their eyes like candle flames caught in a draft. Some clenched their jaws, torn between duty and conscience. Others looked away, unable to meet his gaze, the weight of choice pressing heavy on their shoulders. Doubt hung in the air like smoke.
Below, on the ground floor, officers at their desks sat frozen in place, their hands still on reports and half-filled mugs of coffee gone cold. They stared up at the confrontation unfolding before them, the color drained from their faces, fear etched deep into every line. None of them had ever imagined they'd see this day—the great Tower turning on itself, the heart of justice splintering from within.
But now, the impossible stood before them, steel drawn and wands raised. The first breaths of civil war had begun to fill their lungs.
"And this?" the man gestured to them all with a derisive laugh. "This isn't protest. This isn't resistance. This is treason." His grin widened, feral. "And we all know what we do to traitors."
A long silence held the corridor like a taut wire, both sides frozen at the edge of violence. No one moved. No one dared to be the spark that would ignite the powder keg. Then, without warning, an emerald screen shimmered into life above them, casting a cold green hue over the hall.
Every head turned.
On the screen sat an elven man, elegant yet formidable, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he leaned forward, his sapphire gaze sharp as frost. The weight of his presence settled over the room like a blade to the throat.
"Macon Duchannes?" Frank muttered, brows raised in surprise.
"Who's he?" Bastion asked. "Someone important?"
Frank let out a strained chuckle. "That's putting it lightly."
Then Macon spoke.
"This message is for all Clock Tower personnel across Avalon. I am Macon Duchannes, Grand Regent of Avalon. I speak with the authority of the Wizarding Council and the Three Bodies that govern our world."
He paused, letting the gravity of his title land like a hammer. His gaze swept the camera as if peering into every soul watching.
"By now, many of you have seen the footage. The truth laid bare. Some of you are appalled. Others, furious. Know that I share your sentiment."
The air grew heavy.
"This betrayal has not merely stained the Tower," Macon continued, "It has fractured it. The man once entrusted to uphold our laws and preserve justice has proven himself no better than the criminals we swore to cast into shadow. This duplicity is not merely shameful—it is intolerable."
He drew a slow breath.
"As of this moment, I have formally stripped Lamar Burges of his position as Director. He has been relieved of all duties and responsibilities. A warrant for his arrest has been issued."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd. The Norsefire guards, once bristling with arrogance, stood frozen, faces paling beneath their helmets.
"And now… to the matter of Norsefire."
Macon's tone sharpened, like the edge of a drawn blade.
"I am well aware of the abominable acts committed against the people of Caerleon. I know the promises that lured you here—wealth, prestige, elevation under Burgess' banner."
"Over the years, I have seen what power untethered can do. I have watched men convince themselves they are immune to consequence. Cloaking their wickedness in duty, absolving themselves with blind obedience. It is an old tune, and one I know too well. There is no evil more corrosive than that which wears the mask of legitimacy, nor any more dangerous than the man who believes himself beyond justice."
His gaze darkened, eyes fixed with a dispassionate clarity.
"Men like that have felt the weight of my blade before, and more than once, their blood has stained the earth in silence." He paused. "Let me be perfectly clear. The man you served. The one who filled your ears with promises and your hands with weapons—is a liar. A coward. And like Captain McGrath before you, you will find that loyalty to the devil buys nothing but damnation."
His eyes narrowed. "You may believe that 'just following orders' will shield you. But I assure you, when the Tower is reclaimed and the courts convene, that defense will crumble before the noose. Your predecessors in the Camelot Insurrection may have slipped through the cracks. You will not."
A beat passed.
"As Grand Regent of Avalon," Macon began, "As of this very moment, I hereby declare Norsefire officially disavowed from the Clock Tower."
His words rang out like a sentence passed. "They are to be recognized henceforth as terrorists—traitors to the crown, to the realm, and to the very ideals upon which this Tower was founded. Effective immediately, any individual bearing their colors is to be treated as armed, dangerous, and an enemy of the state."
A visible ripple of dread spread through the Norsefire ranks. Their leader froze; the tension in the hall thickened, and the steel in Macon's tone cut through it like a guillotine's fall.
He paused, drawing a slow breath.
"However," he continued, "I am not without mercy. So, I offer this only once." His eyes swept the room. "Lay down your arms. Surrender peacefully. Do so, and you will be granted a fair trial—and with it, perhaps, the promise of leniency."
His face darkened like gathering storm clouds.
"Refuse… and you will face the untampered wrath of Avalon's justice," Macon said. "And I give you my word. My solemn vow, that each and every one of you will be summoned to stand before the Magisters in Caerleon. And after the hell you've unleashed upon their city, you'll find that clemency is a luxury they no longer provide."
The screen remained suspended in the air, Macon's gaze fixed and unblinking, as though daring anyone watching to test his resolve.
"Even as I speak, the full strength of the Clock Tower is en route to Caerleon," Macon said evenly. "Every vehicle, every airship, every wand, every willing soul from the farthest reaches of Avalon now moves with purpose. And so, I leave you with but one thought to consider—if there is even a shred of loyalty left in you, to the Tower, to the vows you swore to uphold… search your conscience and decide where you truly stand."
The screen blinked to black and dissolved into the air.
All eyes snapped back to the stairs. The Norsefire guards stood petrified, their bravado faltering beneath the weight of silence. A subtle shift pulsed through the room. Those who had once hesitated, who moments ago had wavered on the edge of uncertainty, now turned with sharpened gazes. Their hands moved instinctively, drifting toward wands, hilts, and holsters. Resolve settled in their stances like iron drawn tight.
The leader of the Norsefire unit swallowed, the sound loud in his throat. The tide had turned—and he knew it. Meanwhile, Bastion's smirk widened, smug and unrelenting. Frank mirrored it with a grin of his own, steady as drawn steel.
"Your move, peckerwood," Frank said, drawing his sword with a low metallic scrape.