It began subtly. Just a faint tremor beneath their boots. Grains of sand shifted, dancing across the dirt-caked ground in soft, rhythmic pulses. Birds took to the sky with uneasy cries. Even the magical creatures, sensitive to shifts in the air froze, heads lifted to the sunlit horizon as if listening to an omen. Then the shaking worsened. Steady. Relentless. The kind of rumble that seeped into the bones.
Deer bolted from thickets. Foxes and rabbits vanished into burrows. Nifflers, pixies, and things without names scattered in opposite directions. And then came the noise—metal grinding, groaning, and splitting the stillness with the churning of warcasters.
Massive, tank-like machines punched their way through the forest, trampling trees beneath treads thick with plated steel. Trucks followed in tight formation, their wheels chewing up gravel and root, each one packed with soldiers. And behind them, boots. Dozens upon dozens, then hundreds. Nearly a thousand strong, marching in lockstep, black-clad and armored, the crimson cross of Norsefire stamped boldly across their chests. Shields glinted. Batons swayed. Helmets masked their faces.
At the head of the convoy flew the flags. Red and black, snapping in the breeze—less a symbol than a promise. A blood-soaked covenant for the city of Caerleon.
At the front of it all, seated in the lead vehicle, sat two men. One the architect of it, the other its instrument.
Lamar Burgess crouched atop the backseat of the open-roof car, one foot propped up before him, arms resting on his knee. His eyes scanned the horizon like a starving predator. A slow, delighted breath passed his lips.
Caerleon. The rat's nest that dared defy him. They'd survived his tyranny through luck and desperation, but both would fail them now. What he brought today was not a siege. It was an ending.
Men. Women. Children. Every cursed brat wearing Excalibur's colors—he would see them burn. Their blood staining the cobblestones. Their bodies stacked like barricades. He could already see it. The horror on the Regent's face. The broken cries. The silence that followed. It would echo across Avalon until the end of time.
If they refused to revere him as a savior, they would worship him as a god of wrath.
His smirk widened.
"Lamar," came Hartshorne's voice, rough and grim. He raised a hand and pointed forward, just past the treeline. "There. Look."
Two figures. Distant, but unmoving.
Lamar's eyes narrowed, the smile draining from his face, replaced by a flicker of recognition and a deep scowl.
"Pull up," he snapped to the driver.
The car slowed to a halt. The convoy behind it began to shift, heavy engines idling, the army's momentum freezing in place like a breath held before the plunge.
Lamar stood, hands tightening into fists.
"So… they've come to greet us."
****
"By the Gods," Bastion muttered, leaning slightly toward Frank. "Looks like the big cheese didn't skimp on the theatrics. Warcasters, convoys... all the shiny toys. Guess we finally know where all those missing tax crowns ended up."
"No doubt," Frank said, arms folded, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. "The bastard's probably been funneling funds into this little crusade for years. If Asriel and his lot hadn't started picking at the cracks, who knows how long he'd been building it up."
"You think he's aiming for a coup?" Bastion asked, his mismatched eyes flicking to the looming figures of Lamar and Hartshorne. "All this firepower… doesn't feel like a contingency. Feels like he had been prepping for a damned takeover."
"At this point?" Frank exhaled. "I don't know what to believe anymore, kid." He nodded subtly toward the road ahead. "But they're coming, so remember what we talked about."
"Yeah, yeah," Bastion sighed. "You do the talking, and I keep my mouth shut."
"That's a good boy," Frank said with a smirk. "Try to keep that up longer than ten seconds this time."
The battalion had come to a halt just at the edge of the tree line. A wall of bodies, warcasters, and steel poised to descend upon the city like a storm waiting to break. Bastion's hand rested lightly on the hilt of his short sword as Lamar and Hartshorne strode toward them. He studied their movements, their expressions. Hartshorne had his blade at his side. Polished, but scarred with the signs of years in the field. Lamar, however, had something far larger strapped to his back. Too broad for a blade. Too shapeless for anything else. Whatever it was, it made the hairs at Bastion's nape stand on end.
The weight of his own greatsword across his back served as a reminder: if Lamar so much as twitched wrong, he'd be ready.
"Well, well," Lamar drawled. "Why am I not surprised to find you at the helm of this coup. Can't resist playing the martyr, can you, Lieutenant Reagen?"
Bastion stiffened at the sound of his words. It was venom in sound alone.
"Coup, is it now?" Frank arched a brow. "Gods, you really are crazy, Burgess. Thought you'd gone off the deep end before, but this?" He gave a slow glance to the war machines and soldiers behind Lamar. "On second thought… perhaps I saw this coming."
Frank's eyes locked on Lamar with quiet fury. "Let's make something real clear, before you start dragging the lot of us into your collective fantasy. You've been relieved of duty. That's the formal way of saying you're fired. Disgraced. Expelled from office." He snorted. "You're not Director anymore. Hell, you're not even qualified to sweep the damned floors of the Citadel."
Hartshorne opened his mouth to speak, but Frank cut him off with a sharp turn and a glare that could've curdled milk.
"And I'd shut my damned piehole if I were you—Maker help me!" he growled. "Last time, I let you flap your sorry mouth, and I held my tongue outta respect. For your badge. Your station. Your so-called authority."
Frank jabbed a finger forward. "But that's long gone. You made your choice. Drew your line. And I'll be damned if I stand here and take a single word of crap from a gutless, backstabbing little traitor. Especially when that traitor is you."
Bastion couldn't help but grin as Hartshorne bristled with quiet rage. Frank turned back to Lamar, whose expression had tightened. The smirk was gone.
"You'd think a man in your position might bow out gracefully. But not you. No, you double down. Dig in like a stubborn tick," Frank said, a sneer curling at his lips. "And true to form, you've turned a bad hand into a total disaster. I'm curious—how do you honestly think this ends?"
He took a slow step forward, boots crunching the dirt beneath them.
"Duchannes gave you an out," Frank said. "You could've taken the fall like a man. Swallowed your pride, kept your damn mouth shut, accepted the disgrace. Best case? Life in Revel's End. Worst? A noose. Quick. Clean."
He let the silence hang, just long enough to sting. A cruel glint sparked in his eye. "That ship's still in port, Lamar. You could still board it." Frank's gaze hardened. "But I know you. Always have. Even when I was a cadet. You've never let a slight go. Never met a transgression you didn't take personally. You're addicted to retribution, like a junkie hooked on Shimmer."
He cut a glance at Bastion, then back to Lamar. "If you march on that gate. If you see this through—it won't be a cell, or a blade, or a noose waiting for you at the end of it." He leaned in. "No… it'll be something far worse."
Lamar's gaze darkened. Hartshorne's jaw clenched tight. Bastion caught the flicker of panic, just beneath the surface.
Frank smirked, slow and sharp.
"You know the one I'm talking about. That one punishment—the punishment. The one they keep locked away in the dark. Reserved for traitors so vile, even hell turns 'em away."
"Used only three times in a thousand years." Frank straightened, locking eyes with Lamar. "I've never witnessed it myself, obviously, but I've read the accounts. Books, tribunal records, even old scripture. Vivid, clinical, horrifying detail. And I'll admit, I couldn't eat right for days after letting my curiosity get the better of me."
Out the corner of his eye, Bastion noticed Hartshorne swallow hard, a bead of sweat breaking down his temple.
"You're thinking about it now," Frank went on. "Running through the possibility in that twisted little mind of yours. I can see it." A malicious grin spread across his face. "Kaltz once said the courts are theatre… and executions? That's the grand finale."
He turned his gaze on Hartshorne, letting the weight of his next words drop like a hammer.
"And if you honestly believe the Council wouldn't turn your end into a spectacle, a warning, a damned exclamation mark burned into history—" his grin turned cold, "then you're dead wrong."
A slow silence fell. Eerie, charged. Then came a sound. Low at first. A chuckle.
Lamar's shoulders began to shake, his smirk stretching wider, more unhinged. Then, without warning, he threw his head back and howled with laughter. A jagged, guttural sound as his hand dragged down his face. His irises had shrunk to pinpricks, and for a fleeting moment, Frank and Bastion saw a man not just unhinged, but hollowed out. Unraveled.
"Oh, Frank… Frank, Frank, Frank…" Lamar clapped slowly, mock applause. "Still the same fire. The same pathetic theatre. In truth, you always reminded me of Reinhardt. That same dull chivalry. That desperate itch to drape yourself in honor like it means something. Not surprising given who trained you."
His grin vanished. "How I've always hated it."
He took a slow breath, then spat the next names with disgust.
"Reinhardt. Winston. Two imbeciles who preached about justice like it was scripture. I smiled. I played along. I cheered when they cheered. But inside?" Lamar leaned forward. "I wanted to gouge their eyes out with a dull quill. I imagined it every day. Over and over."
Frank's lip curled, but he held steady.
"But you are right about one thing," Lamar said coolly, eyes gleaming with restrained malice. "I am a man incapable of allowing a slight go unanswered."
He stepped forward, just enough to let the weight of his presence press into Frank's space. "So, tell me, Frank… as you stand there, looking at me, with your noble posturing and your tired little threats—what on earth makes you believe I care a whit about the Council?"
He leaned in further. "What makes you think their punishments matter to me? That you matter to me? You pitiful, desperate, sad little man."
Turning slightly, he raised his arm toward the distant skyline. The towering shadows of the city, the glow of warcasters and troops beyond the trees. "That—that is power. And you, and your sorry band of misfits scraping together a 'resistance' from ruins and sentiment… you're insects. Cockroaches clinging to a corpse, too stubborn to admit it's already rotted."
"Duchannes. Windsor. Valerian. The Pendragons—names. That's all they are. Names soon to be forgotten." His hand lifted, one finger raised in mock declaration. "And when Caerleon burns—and it will—I'll build a monument of corpses in their honor. Street by street. Stone by stone. Until there's nothing left but cinders and screams."
A breath escaped him, slow and indulgent. "Duchannes may still carry the shame of what I did to the Se'Lais… but it'll be a mercy compared to what awaits him when he arrives." He laughed darkly, pointing a finger. "And yours, Frank, will be the one that greets him. That is my promise."
A low chuckle broke the tension—but not from Lamar. All three men turned to Bastion, who was shaking his head with a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
"You know," Bastion said, pointing lazily at Lamar, "I always wondered why grandpa kept a picture of you pinned dead center on his hatchet target. Every time he came home pissed off, and I reckon that was thanks to you, he'd spend hours hurling axes into your smug little face. And when the picture got torn to shreds, he'd reach into a drawer and pull out another. Had a whole bloody stack of them ready."
He laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "I used to think it was just some falling out. Friends fight, after all. But you don't keep that fire burning unless someone's done you dirty. Really, deeply wronged you."
His grin faded. His eyes narrowed.
"And now, looking at you… hearing the shit that comes out your mouth? I wish to hell and high water that he were still here. Just so he could swing that axe of his into your skull with a smile on his face."
Bastion reached back, hand wrapping around the hilt of his greatsword. He gave it a twist—the engine within coughed, then roared to life, the steel humming with fire as soft flames licked from the exhaust ports.
"But you've still got one Reinhardt left, and maybe that's enough to finish what he started."
Lamar sneered. "Sticks and stones, boy. You may bear the name, but you're not even half the man your grandfather was. The title of Overdeath is a ghost. A relic. And you'll soon be another."
He turned to Frank, expression darkening. "In fact, I think it's only fitting we mark the beginning of this war…" He glanced to Hartshorne. "With both your heads on pikes."
In a flash, Hartshorne's sword was out. A gleam of silver cut through the air. Frank's eyes widened—but there was no pain. No blood.
Just wind.
The illusions of Frank and Bastion flickered, then scattered like ash.
Hartshorne hissed in frustration, sheathing his blade. "Projections. Damned cowards."
Lamar waved a hand dismissively. "Calm yourself. I knew they weren't here from the start. Frank may be insufferable, but he's not stupid." He exhaled, long and slow. "Still, no more waiting." He turned on his heel, striding back toward the car. "As the youngsters say… let's get this party started."
"Yes, sir," Hartshorne muttered, casting one last glance over his shoulder before following.
****
The glow from Bastion's short blade faded, dimming until it vanished entirely. He had held it upright in front of his face before lowering it and sliding it back into its sheath. He and Frank stood just behind a fortified barricade, not far from the city's main gates. Behind them, a full battalion of AEGIS guards and Guardians stood ready—wands drawn, weapons raised, their faces tense with resolve.
"Well, looks like you called it, old man," Bastion muttered, glancing sideways. "Still… hell of a strike. Didn't even see the blade coming."
"There's a reason they used to call Hartshorne the Flashing Blade," Frank said, arms crossed. "Though I'll admit, he's slowed down with age. Used to be faster." He gave Bastion a nod. "That projection spell though? Damn impressive."
Bastion smirked. "Picked it up at Wallace. Part of the advanced curriculum. Saved my ass more than once—especially against cowards who'd rather stab you from behind than fight like men." He paused. "Any idea how Burgess'll move?"
Frank's eyes fixed on the gates ahead. "From the way he talks, he wants to tear this place apart. Best way to do that fast is to hit from all sides. Spread us thin. Makes sense if he thinks we're outnumbered and outgunned."
Bastion's grin widened. "Yeah… the bastard's in for one hell of a rude awakening."
"Langston's got the civvies locked down," Frank said, more to reassure himself. "And those students from Excalibur… they'll be just fine."
"You trust the professors to hold?" Bastion raised a brow.
Frank chuckled. "Kid, we both know what Serfence can do. The others? Let's just say they're not in those posts for their charm. Burgess underestimating them'll be the last mistake he ever makes. Hell, underestimating the students might do him in before that."
A sudden grind of metal tore through the tension. The heavy thud of boots followed—close, steady, and growing louder by the second.
Both men turned as the gates trembled.
"Eyes up!" Bastion barked, drawing his greatsword and revving it to life. The engine inside snarled, flames curling from the exhaust.
Frank unsheathed his own blade, the edge gleaming. "No matter what happens," he said over his shoulder, "you hold this line. Am I clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!" the troops roared back in unison.
Bastion stepped forward, teeth bared as the enemy surged into view beyond the barricades. "Alright, you sons of bitches…" His voice rose to a battle cry. "Come and get some!"
****
On the western front of Caerleon, war had come in full. The streets shook with fury as arcane blasts from the warcasters ripped through stone walls and rooftops like parchment. Each impact sent shockwaves through the city, flinging bricks, splinters, and glass through the air in a deadly hail. The stench of scorched magic hung thick as spells tore through the sky in vibrant streaks. Emerald, crimson, sapphire—burning hot and screaming in the ears of those who stood their ground.
Amid the chaos came the twang of bowstrings, the whistle of arrows, the brutal clang of steel on steel. Blood darkened the cobblestones beneath their feet. Men and women from both sides—soldiers, Guardians, Aurors, even members of the local Militia—fell screaming, cut down by blade, bolt, or the flash of the Killing Curse. Behind the barricades, the Tower's loyal forces clutched their wands tighter. Dread gnawed at the edges of their resolve.
They were outnumbered. They knew it. And now, with the groan of steel and grind of treads, another warcaster rolled into view, accompanied by armored trucks. The doors slammed open, boots hit the ground, and more Norsefire soldiers poured out like carrion crows ready to feed.
"Brace!" a Guardian shouted.
The warcaster charged, its core glowing white-hot. A second later, it fired.
The barricade exploded. Twisted metal and broken bodies scattered through the air. Screams rang out as men were thrown aside like dolls.
As dust settled, one of the Norsefire officers stepped forward. He wore stripes on his arms, the smug assurance of command in his stride. He tapped his wand to his throat.
"Traitors!" his voice boomed. "You know this is over. You're cornered like rats in a cellar. Drop your weapons now, and we'll make your deaths quick."
A ripple of cruel laughter passed through the ranks behind him.
There was no response.
His smile vanished. "This is your final warning. Surrender or I swea—"
A sharp whistle sliced through the air. A crimson streak hit him square in the throat. Steel punching through flesh with brutal precision. His mouth gurgled blood as a six-foot spear burst clean through his neck. He choked, staggered, and collapsed face-first into the rubble.
Silence.
Then, with a high whine of metal, the spear snapped back through the air, ripping from his corpse and zipping into the outstretched hand of a young man standing atop a crumbled rooftop. He rested the weapon across his shoulders, smirking, crimson eyes alight with a wild, bloodthirsty gleam.
Beside him stood a girl with one eye and a grin that promised violence.
"We heard ye the first time, ya feckin' gobshite," she called. "And we're here to tell ye, shove yer surrender right up yer arse! 'Cause you lot… you're the ones outnumbered and overfecked!"
As if summoned by her voice, they emerged.
From the rooftops. The alleyways. Behind shattered stone and broken doors. Hundreds of them.
Boots thundered down. Flags were raised. Colors flashed in the sunlight. Each warrior wore their Clan's emblem with pride, their faces etched with fury, resolve, and the promise of vengeance. Some wore full armor. Others bore little more than cloaks and bloodied fists—but all of them came to fight.
The Congregation had arrived.
The Norsefire troops paled. Some stepped back unconsciously. Others stared in disbelief.
But behind the barricades, AEGIS soldiers began to smile.
"Oh aye," the girl roared, drawing her wand. "And now we're gonna peel yer skin, fashion boots from it, and piss on what's left!"
A roar erupted—dozens, then hundreds of voices rising as one. A battle cry that echoed through Caerleon's streets.
And then they charged.
The line surged forward, sweeping through the broken city like a tidal wave of fury.
The battle had begun again. And this time, the streets would remember who fought for them.
****
The city drowned in the chaos of battle. War swept through Caerleon like wildfire. Merciless, all-consuming. Spells scorched the stonework, arcane blasts shattered walls, tore through iron and flesh alike. The air reeked of charred rubble, burnt magic, and the acrid sting of exhaust fumes. Smoke curled from cracked rooftops and burning barricades. Screams echoed down once-peaceful alleys.
But Burgess' loyalists hadn't expected resistance like this.
Most of them were older men. Some half a step from retirement, still clinging to glory long past. Others were cadets, barely out of the academy, still drunk on fantasies of power and promises whispered in the dark. They had pledged themselves to Burgess, thinking it would buy them a seat at his table. Fortune. Status. Immortality in the pages of history.
What they found instead was wrath incarnate.
The students of Excalibur, young, raw, and half the time barely trained—fought with a fury that defied comprehension. Their blades moved like executioner's tools. Spells carved through enemy lines like scythes through wheat. There was no fear in their eyes. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Even the youngest among them, those too green for the frontlines, found purpose. Dragging the wounded to safety, casting healing charms, patching armor and spirit alike. They were relentless. Disciplined. And something more. Something forged in fire and pain and unity.
The old guards of Norsefire, so used to bending others beneath their boots, had expected cattle.
Instead, they were met with the fangs of hounds.
A girl cried out as a bolt struck her chest, sending her crashing to the ground. Another student shouted, rushing to her aid—only for a Norsefire soldier to raise his blade high with a triumphant roar. The two girls froze, staring up, helpless, as the blade began its descent.
Then—lightning.
A golden blur slammed into the earth between them. A flash of silver, a high ringing note, and the soldier's scream filled the air as his hand was cleaved from his wrist. He staggered, blood spraying from the stump.
Godric stood before him, eyes glowing crimson. Lightning coiled around his frame, sparking off his armor. His sword shimmered with raw magic, Dulling Charm engaged—lethal force tempered just short of the edge. With one clean motion, he cracked the flat of his blade against the man's neck. The soldier collapsed like a felled tree, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Godric exhaled hard, turning his head. "Fall back!" he barked. "I've got this!"
The girls looked up at him, wide-eyed, then nodded. One lifted their injured comrade, disappearing into the smoke. Godric faced forward. More troops were charging his way—dozens of them.
The circuits across his skin flared gold, and in a flash, he vanished. The ground split beneath where he stood. Then came the storm.
Godric tore through the enemy line like a force of nature. Blade flashing, body surging with momentum, each strike a thunderclap. Bodies flew backward in sickening arcs. Bones snapped, limbs twisted, helmets caved under the force of his blows. Screams rose and then died mid-breath. Blood misted the air like rain as soldiers hit the ground—writhing, twitching, broken.
And in the midst of it all, Godric stood still. His breath heavy, shoulders rising and falling, eyes burning. He raised his head to the skies and bellowed, voice shaking the ruins around him.
"Burgess!" His cry echoed through the city. "Where are you?! Come out and face me, you coward!"
****
At the town square, the battle raged with unrelenting fury. Smoke billowed skyward as flames devoured buildings, their skeletons silhouetted against the inferno. Armored vehicles lay in twisted ruin, steel warped and blackened, the stench of burning oil thick in the air. Norsefire soldiers screamed as ethereal arrows sliced through them. Torsos, limbs, knees—dropping one after another like marionettes with cut strings.
Rowena moved like a shadow through the wreckage, weaving between fallen bodies and smoldering debris. Spells cracked through the air, arrows whistled past her ears, and blasts shook the ground at her heels. Her black bow glinted in her grip. Drawing it taut, a sapphire-blue arrow formed upon the string, magic humming with purpose.
"Pallas!" she shouted, loosing the arrow.
Mid-flight, it split into a dozen more, a rain of ghostly shafts cascading down upon the advancing soldiers. Screams followed, cut short by impact.
The students fought back with all they had, but the toll was clear. Blood stained the cobblestones. Some lay slumped against walls, wounds bleeding freely. Others sprawled motionless, wands still clutched in limp fingers. Stone and metal were scorched, smoke and dust filling every breath.
Rowena ducked behind a flipped car, its underside charred and dented. Spellfire hammered against the steel, each blast rattling the frame. She gasped for air, sweat pouring down her face and matting her hair.
She had grown up on stories of war. Heroic tales told over supper by her grandfather, and on darker nights, by Lamar himself. Always painted in strokes of glory. Men standing defiant against impossible odds, triumph born from courage. But they had never spoken of the dread. Of watching classmates bleed out in the street. Of the acrid sting of burning flesh. Of the hollow silence that followed a scream.
Her sapphire eyes swept across the field—bodies, medics, sobbing students clinging to their wounded. Her chest tightened. That same helplessness stirred, old and buried. A memory long repressed. Fire. Screams. Smoke. She flinched as a blast ricocheted off the metal barely an inch from her head.
Now wasn't the time to falter.
She rose, just enough to peek over the barricade—only to see the barrel of a warcaster turret locked on her position.
Her eyes widened.
"Run!" she shouted, turning toward a group of students still scrambling for cover. The tank's cannon hummed as it charged, while a fresh wave of troops surged in behind it, blades raised, shouting their war cries.
Then, a voice rang out from above.
"Pallas!"
Rowena's gaze shot upward. A figure descended through the smoke, leaping from a strange winged vehicle—not an airship, not anything she recognized. A young man, bow in hand, coat trailing behind him like a comet.
"Bran?" she breathed.
Arrows burst from his bow in a volley, splitting in mid-air into dozens more, raining down on the charging troops. The enemy ranks buckled under the storm.
Then, like a thunderbolt, a streak of lightning tore through the sky—headed straight for the warcaster.
"You called down the thunder, now here it comes!" Laxus roared above the chaos. "Sechster…" His coat billowed in the wind. Lightning arced across his body, crackling from his fist. "… Angriff!" he growled.
His punch landed like a meteor. The tank detonated in a deafening blast, its armor crumpling before bursting apart, raining twisted metal in all directions.
The nearby Norsefire troops stood frozen. Wide-eyed, slack-jawed as Laxus straightened from the wreckage. His coat hung from his shoulders like a cape, his silhouette framed by the burning remains of the warcaster. Lightning crackled from his raised fist, illuminating his face in flashes of white and gold. He turned his head, casting a smoldering glance over his shoulder. Quiet fury burning in his eyes.
"It's him!" one of the soldiers cried out in a panic, stumbling backwards. "It's Dryfus—the Thunder Emperor!"
The name alone broke whatever nerve they had left.
"Run for it!"
He turned and bolted. Others followed, some tripping over rubble in their haste to escape. Their shouts dissolved into the chaos as they vanished into the smoke.
Bran landed softly before Rowena, straightening his coat with a tug and adjusting his glasses with a quiet smile. "Apologies for the delay," he said. "We got here as quickly as we could."
Rowena's composure finally gave way. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a fierce embrace, burying her face into his chest.
"I thought I'd never see you again," she whispered.
He held her close, grounding her. "So did I."
When she finally pulled away, he scanned her from head to toe. "Are you alright? Not injured, are you?"
She wiped a tear from her cheek and gave a breathless laugh. "It'd take more than this to do me in. You know that."
Bran's lips curved in relief. "Aye," he murmured. "That, I do."
Then his eyes shifted drawn past her, toward the castle rising behind the battlefield, shrouded in smoke. His expression sharpened. "Where is he? Burgess?"
Rowena's smile faded. She shook her head. "I don't know. I haven't seen him since it all began."
"I'll give you one guess," Laxus muttered, cracking his knuckles beneath his gauntlets. His sapphire eyes narrowed, fixed on the castle looming in the distance. "There's only one prize he's after. The city's just a wall in his way."
Rowena's eyes widened. "Then we need to get back to Excalibur. We have to hold the line there—now."
But Laxus just smirked. "Relax, Row. If I were you, I wouldn't be losing sleep over the castle."
Bran nodded, his calm matching Laxus' confidence. "If the Professors are stationed there, Excalibur is in excellent hands. And even if, by some miracle, Burgess manages to slip past them, he'll still have to face the Visionaries."
"And let me tell you," Laxus added, his grin widening, "this year's bunch? Might just be the strongest we've ever seen. Stronger than us, even."
Bran's brow suddenly furrowed. His gaze swept over Rowena's outfit, taking in the sleek armor and glowing accents. "Hold on—what in the name of all that's sacred are you wearing?"
Rowena blinked. "Oh… this? It's… complicated."
Laxus chuckled, stepping in and running his fingers along her sleeve. "Damn, this is premium work. Stitching's tight, fabric feels like reinforced iron mesh. Honestly? This makes Tower gear look like cheap costumes." He gave a low whistle. "You've got to hook me up with whoever made this. I need one."
Then his hand froze. His fingers brushed over the emblem stitched into her shoulder. "Hold up… Marauders?"
His gaze snapped to hers.
Rowena sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Don't."
"Marauders?" Bran's voice rose a note. "Rowena… tell me you didn't—"
"We'll talk about it later," she cut in sharply. "Right now, we have more pressing matters."
Laxus gave an approving nod, still grinning. "Metal."
"Laxus, don't encourage her," Bran said with a tired sigh, adjusting his glasses.
"Oh, give it a rest, Bran," Laxus smirked. "You Raven types cling to tradition like it's oxygen. With the world burning the way it is? Might be time someone shook things up a bit."
Bran groaned softly and shook his head. "Anyway, you're right, Rowena," he said, his grip tightening on his bow as his eyes turned toward the smoldering remains of the warcaster. "Fall back to the castle."
"Wait—what?" Rowena stepped toward him, eyes narrowing. "Laxus just said the castle's well defended. Are you sending me back because you're here now? Because you think I need protecting?" Her words sharpened. "Bran, don't you dare—"
"Rowena," he interrupted gently, not stern, not dismissive. Just soft enough to make her stop. He turned and offered a calm smile. "Laxus and I will hold the line here, maybe even thin Burgess's numbers a little more." He pushed up his glasses. "But the city, your friends, they'll need you back at Excalibur. I trust you to do what must be done. Can I count on you?"
Rowena faltered for a moment, her anger slipping. Then she smiled and nodded.
Bran stepped closer and kissed her forehead. "I love you, Rowena. Always."
She smiled up at him. "And I love you."
A sharp, exaggerated gagging noise shattered the moment. They both turned to see Laxus sticking a finger down his throat, pretending to retch.
"Oh, for Hecate's sake…" Bran muttered, half-lidded.
"I think I'm goanna be sick," Laxus said, wincing dramatically.
"Grow up, you immature clod," he replied.
Rowena let out a soft laugh, then looked back to Bran once more. "May the Three Eyed Raven guide you," she said—and with that, turned and sprinted down the street.
The thunder of boots against stone echoed through the streets as the guards came charging, their war cries bouncing off the buildings. Bran and Laxus turned toward them, unfazed.
"May the Three Eyed Raven guide us all." Bran sighed and shook his head. "Honestly, you'd think the mere mention of our names would be enough to send them sprinting for the hills."
He slipped off his overcoat with practiced ease, unfastening his blazer, pulling off his tie, and letting it all drop in a neat heap at his feet. "But no—seems we'll have to jog their memory."
Laxus smirked, then in one smooth motion, tore off his jacket, shirt, and coat in a single pull. His sculpted frame gleamed in the light, the intricate tattoo of a dragon coiled across his back, its body crackling with golden lightning. Etched in a bold, almost mythic style.
"Been itchin' for a proper workout anyway," Laxus said, slamming his fists together as sparks danced between his knuckles.
Bran let out a quiet chuckle. "You'll have to teach me that trick someday."
"Nope. Dryfus family secret," Laxus shot back with a wink.
Bran nocked a shimmering arrow to his bow, the magic pulsing at his fingertips. "Very well, then. Let's do this!"