The city of Caerleon burned.
Flames licked the sky, painting the heavens in blood and smoke. Black plumes rose in thick coils, choking the clouds as the clash of steel and screams of battle rang through every street. The war engulfed all. Brick, stone, and soul.
Far beneath the chaos, hidden in the city's deepest bunkers, the civilians waited. Silence clung to the air like dust, broken only by the muffled thunder of explosions above. Families huddled in tight clusters among crates of Lacrima crystals, the light of the crystals casting faint glows across anxious faces. Some knelt in prayer, fingers clenched together, lips moving soundlessly. Each blast from above rattled the stone, shaking dirt loose from the ceiling. Cries of fear followed with every tremor, their dread growing thicker by the minute.
Langston stood at the center of it all.
The chamber stretched wide around him—an intersection deep beneath the surface, one he knew too well. This was the place. The very spot where Burgess had tried to destroy them all, planting enough explosive power to reduce the entire city to ash. He folded his arms, jaw tight, exhaling slowly. The weight of what could have been pressed heavy on his chest, heavier than any armor.
His gaze swept across the weary crowd. Their eyes occasionally flicked toward the stacks of Lacrima. Far too many to be coincidental. Questions had come, of course. Whispers. Nervous glances. And when they asked, he offered vague reassurances. Half-truths. A wave of the hand and a mutter about Burgess' madness. The truth, if spoken aloud, would only incite panic. He couldn't risk that.
Langston's eyes drifted to the ceiling, to the distant, muffled roar of war bleeding through the stone and steel. He hated being down here. Hated it with every fiber of his being. His place was above. Beside Frank, Bastion, and the rest of his men. Fighting. Bleeding. Dying if need be. Not locked away underground on guard duty like a forgotten relic.
He had argued the point. Frank had overruled him.
"If we fall," Frank had said, "you're the last thing standing between these people and the slaughter."
And so, he stayed.
His men patrolled the tunnels, watching every corridor, guarding each entrance with silent precision. If Norsefire came, they'd be ready. No warning, no mercy.
Even so, Langston felt it. That unease in the pit of his stomach. A tension he couldn't shake.
All he could do now was wait.
And pray to the Gods that Frank and the Guardians of AEGIS—would prevail.
****
High above the battlefield, perched atop the Excalibur Observatory, Serfence, Workner, and Ryan stood, their eyes locked on the chaos unfolding far below. From this height, the city looked like a storm of fire and steel. Ryan stood at the edge, arms crossed, a trail of smoke curling from the cigarette tucked between his lips. His black eyes narrowed against the wind.
"Damn," he muttered, teeth clenched around the filter. "Ain't seen this much turmoil since my op in Syria. Doesn't matter where you go... war never changes."
"And it never will," Serfence replied. He exhaled sharply. Hands tucked into his coat. "When this is over, Burgess will answer for every bit of this carnage. And I, for one, look forward to watching whatever grisly fate the Council cooks up for him."
"I just wish we were down there," Workner said quietly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Fighting beside them. Not... stuck here, behind walls."
"The Headmaster made our orders perfectly clear," Serfence said. "We are the shield of this Academy. The Congregation may hold their own, but the rest of our students are uninitiated. Many of them green and defenseless. They need us here. Standing firm."
"I know that," Workner muttered. "Doesn't make it any less bloody frustrating."
Ryan took one last drag and flicked the cigarette over the railing. "Well, I don't know about you two, but I'm—" He froze mid-sentence. His eyes widened. He leaned forward, squinting toward the horizon. "Hold the hell up... what is that?"
Serfence and Workner followed his gaze. In the far distance, nestled against the mountains beyond Caerleon, several massive structures were rising. Mechanical, angular, and aligned like jagged teeth aimed toward the sky.
"What in the world...?" Workner breathed, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a brass spyglass. He extended it and brought it to his eye. "Those aren't buildings. They're... angled platforms. Mounted with—"
"Gimme that!" Ryan said, snatching the spyglass. He peered through it, and his expression went pale. "Oh, bend me over and call me Sally."
"What is it?" Serfence demanded.
Ryan lowered the spyglass slowly. "I don't know what passes for heavy firepower in your world, but I know artillery when I see it."
"Artillery?" Workner repeated, confused.
"Big ass cannons," Ryan said. "Guns the size of buildings. Fire rounds that flatten cities. And those bastards have at least six of them."
"From that distance?" Workner frowned. "There's no cannon powerful enough to hit Caerleon from that far out."
"That's where you're wrong," Serfence said grimly. Both men turned to him. "I've heard whispers. Quiet ones. In the Tower. Weapons of war—designed by the Atlas Institute. Experimental tech. The warcasters we've seen? They're just the tip of it. New models. Prototypes."
He glanced toward the horizon, eyes like sharpened glass.
"If those are what I think they are... then we haven't seen anything yet."
****
Frank's blade tore through the soldier's shoulder, severing the arm clean from the socket. The man howled, eyes wide with terror as blood spattered across the cobblestones, until Frank ended it with a second swing, the sword arcing through his neck in one brutal, final stroke. His head hit the ground with a dull thud. Blood soaked into Frank's uniform, but he didn't flinch.
Just a step away, Bastion was already in motion.
His greatsword danced through the air like it weighed nothing, cleaving bodies in fiery arcs. Flames traced the blade's path as it ripped through flesh and bone with terrifying ease. Limbs flew. Screams rose and died in the same breath. He spun the sword in his grip and drove the edge into the stone, the blade buried deep. A roar erupted from the hilt as he revved it once—red-hot exhaust flaring to life, flames pouring from the vents.
His mismatched eyes fixed on the squad ahead.
Then he moved.
A blur of motion, Bastion slammed the throttle as he spun, becoming a whirlwind of fire and steel. The sword howled, cleaving through six men in one savage sweep. Flesh parted like paper. Blood splashed across the pavement as their torsos split clean in two. Bastion landed in a crouch, rising slowly with a smirk twisting across his face, teeth bared like a predator in the kill. One by one, the others faltered. One by one, they backed away. Then panic set in. A few turned and ran.
Bastion holstered the blade at his back with a fluid motion, resting a hand on his hip.
"Typical," he muttered. "Put a coward to the sword and he bolts. Every damned time."
"Now's not the time to get cocky, kid," Frank said, wiping the blood off his blade with a flick. "This fight's not done yet."
Bastion cast a look over the city square. Blood, bodies, scorch marks on the stone. He grinned. "Relax, old man. What's the worst that'll happen?"
That's when it hit. A sharp crack split the air. Distant, but too dense to be thunder.
Frank's head snapped toward him. "You had to say it."
Before Bastion could reply, they both heard it. A high-pitched whistle, faint at first, but rising fast. Their eyes shot skyward. Through the clouds came a blazing streak, engulfed in flame. A projectile, slender and fast, slicing through the sky like a blade.
"What in the Old Gods is that?" Bastion muttered, tracking it toward a cluster of buildings just blocks away.
Then came the impact.
The explosion was massive. Deafening. The blastwave hit them like a hammer, sending a shock through their bones. Windows shattered across the square, glass raining from above. The target building disappeared in an instant. Stone, steel, and brick vaporized in a thunderclap of fire and debris. A tidal wave of smoke and dust swept toward them, choking the street.
Bastion staggered, the ringing in his ears shrill and unrelenting. He coughed, eyes burning, stumbling back into Frank as the haze swallowed them whole. He couldn't hear anything.
Only the silence after impact and the sense that the worst was still coming. Bit by bit, the ringing in Bastion's ears faded, until a voice finally cut through.
"Kid! Hey—kid!" Frank's hand gripped his shoulder tight. "You with me?"
Bastion blinked hard, coughing as he straightened. "Yeah... yeah, I think so."
They both turned, eyes scanning through the dense curtain of dust still hanging in the air. Shapes moved in the haze. Soldiers from both sides stumbling to their feet, hacking, disoriented, some dragging the wounded, others still too stunned to move.
"What the hell was that?" Bastion asked, squinting through the gloom.
Frank didn't answer at first. His stare was locked forward, jaw clenched "I don't know," he said quietly. "But it took out an entire city block in one shot..."
He exhaled, slow and grim.
"And if there's more where that came from? We're in deep shit."
****
Serfence, Workner, and Ryan stood frozen, their eyes wide with horror as a portion of Caerleon collapsed into smoldering ruin. Fire and smoke billowed into the sky, a plume of destruction, while the distant screams of the wounded were muffled by the groan of crumbling stone and buckling steel.
"Jesus freakin' Christ," Ryan muttered, cigarette forgotten between his fingers as he stared out toward the mountain. "That was one shot."
"Damn the gutless bastards at the Institute!" Serfence growled through clenched teeth. "They've handed a weapon of genocide to a madman, wrapped it in ribbon, and called it innovation."
"That kind of power shouldn't exist," Workner said quietly. "Not in any world. And knowing the Institute… they'll pretend to be neutral, but they'll sell the winning side whatever it needs. All in the name of progress."
Ryan gave a dark chuckle. "Buddy, you clearly haven't seen the shit we've cooked up back in my time. We've got toys that'd make those cannons look like birthday candles." He shook his head. "World's best inventions usually start off as new ways to kill people. Just takes one guy trying to cook a person at fifty yards to invent the microwave."
"Quite the bleak take, Professor Ashford," came a new voice.
The three turned as Headmaster Blaise stepped up behind them, hands folded behind his back, long white beard and robes swaying gently in the wind. His sapphire gaze swept across the devastated skyline.
"I fear that once again I've made a grave miscalculation," Blaise said quietly. "I've received news from colleagues across Avalon—reports that the Institute has been uncommonly industrious of late, likely under the stewardship of its new Directors these past few years."
He exhaled, shaking his head. "I had hoped it was simple ambition. Progress, perhaps. But it seems they've grown far bolder than I dared imagine. Once, they stood as the vanguard of knowledge and discovery. Now? They've sold their purpose for coin and influence. And I suspect they've been working hand in glove with the Tower… with Burgess."
"No offense, Chief," Ryan replied, arms crossed. "But that's just science for you. Morality's usually the first thing thrown out the window once someone sees a breakthrough they can weaponize."
"Quite," Blaise said, adjusting his half-moon spectacles. "Progress rarely makes time for conscience. The Institute doesn't believe in ethics, only outcomes. If they believe the future lies in fire and ruin… they'll build the match that starts it."
"That's horrifying," Workner muttered, his steel-grey eyes fixed on the distant smoke.
"It is," Blaise said quietly. He drew a long, weary breath, then turned from the edge, his footsteps slow as he moved past them. "And if we are to survive this, someone will need to remove those pieces from the board entirely."
The others turned their gazes back toward the distant cannons—black monoliths against the mountainside. Blaise's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of it all. His breath escaped him, slow and pained. His sapphire eyes shimmered with sorrow and something far older. Regret.
"As much as I agree," Serfence muttered, "they're too far. Even if we could reach them, we've nothing powerful enough to destroy them."
"And if we don't act," Workner added, "he'll turn them on the castle. Even if Burgess wants it for himself, he'll use the students as leverage to force a surrender." His jaw tightened. "I'd call him a coward, but even that feels generous."
"So what?" Ryan cut in, incredulous. "We just stand around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for them to pop us blind?" He ran a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing. "Back home, we've got long-range teleportation—real spells, not some rickety old Portkey. You think we're just gonna sit here while they start lighting us up?"
"Perhaps where you're from, Ashford," Serfence replied coolly. "But here, the use of such spells is heavily restricted—punishable by imprisonment or worse. Even Portkeys require mountains of paperwork and layers of clearance."
Ryan scoffed. "Yeah? Well, we'd better figure it out. Fast. Because—"
He never finished.
A violent blast of blue flame erupted behind them, a scorching roar tearing through the air. All three of them flinched and spun around just in time to see a streak of fire launch skyward from the Observatory's summit, cutting a blazing path through the clouds. It arced toward the mountains. Toward the cannons like a comet wreathed in fury.
Where Headmaster Blaise had been standing only moments before, there was nothing but scorched stone. The flagstones were blackened, cracked from the heat, as if lightning had struck the very ground.
Ryan blinked hard. "Please… tell me I wasn't the only one who just saw the old man ignite and shoot off like a goddamned missile."
"You most certainly were not," Serfence replied, stunned.
Workner said nothing. He simply stared skyward, mouth slightly open, words failing him.
****
Asriel's blade tore through the air in wide, sweeping arcs, molten veins pulsing through the blackened steel of his claymore as it carved effortlessly through Norsefire ranks. The enemy had swarmed Caerleon from all directions, likely hoping to crush the resistance by forcing them inward. Surround, suffocate, and slaughter in one fell swoop. But they hadn't expected this. Not this level of retaliation. Not this fury.
Amber eyes swept the blood-slick streets, now littered with bodies. Some draped in Norsefire colors, others in AEGIS uniforms. But the ones that weighed heaviest were the students, those of the Congregation. Young. Brave. Dead far too soon.
One by one, the Norsefire vermin fell like flies at the crack of a whip, but even now, Asriel could feel the cost. This was the war they'd wanted. He, Orgrim, Gunnar, and Isha. They had demanded retribution. Vengeance for the Tower's sins. But not like this. None of them. Neither the Grand Regent of Avalon nor the Headmaster of Excalibur, had foreseen how deep Burgess' depravity truly ran.
Dozens had fallen to Asriel's blade, but his breath came heavy now, each inhale ragged, each exhale strained. His body drenched in sweat. For the first time in years, he felt mortal. Human. He glanced down at his hand, flexing it once, slowly. This was it—the last of the sword's power. No more regenerations. No more cheating death. This was the edge of the end.
A nearby guard collapsed with a grunt, an arrow buried in his eye. Isha stepped out from the shadows beside him, blood-spattered and silent. She looked at him, studying his expression.
"You feel it too, don't you?" she asked softly. "So do I. The strength—it's leaving me. My time's almost up. Soon, I'll be back to the sickly girl I once was."
Asriel clenched his hand into a fist. "We still have to finish this."
"And you will," she said gently. "But without me."
"Isha, don't—"
She raised a hand, silencing him. Then she rolled up her sleeve, revealing a long gash down her arm. Thick, black blood trickled from it.
"It's already started. Whatever was inside me is burning out," she said. "By the time we reach Burgess, I'll be dead weight. I can't fight like this. And I won't have you distracted, worrying about me."
His jaw tightened.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. "You gave me more than I ever dreamed. You helped me bring Arno's killers to justice. I'll never forget that."
She pulled back, her black bow vanishing into ash.
"Now it's your turn," she said. "Finish what we started. For Orgrim. For Gunnar. And for me."
Asriel's gaze flickered, the fire behind it softening for a moment. She smiled through the tears streaking down her cheeks.
"And hey," she added with a small laugh, "if the legends really are true… we'll meet again on the other side."
He took a breath, heavy and low. "Be seeing you, Isha."
She nodded, then turned and walked away, her figure vanishing into the smoke-choked streets. Asriel's eyes returned to the castle in the distance. His stare sharpened.
"Alright, Burgess," he muttered, lifting his claymore to his shoulder. "Let's finish this."
In a burst of blackened smoke and pulsing embers, he vanished into the storm of war.
****
"Oh, now that's what I call a beaut," Partlow muttered, a wide grin splitting his weathered face.
The trees surrounding the mountainside shook violently, branches whipping and leaves torn loose in the wake of the blast's shockwave. Guards shouted over the roar of the humming crystal core at the base of the artillery cannon, their boots pounding into the dirt as they rushed to reload and recalibrate. A hiss of steam escaped from one of the vents, followed by a deep metallic clang as the chamber unlocked. A shell the size of a grown man shot out from the breech, crashing to the ground. One of the soldiers rushed to roll it clear—only to scream, yanking his hand back from the burning-hot casing.
"Hey! Use your damn gloves!" Partlow barked, turning toward the commotion. "Touchin' that raw'll cook your skin right off."
"Aye, Commander Partlow!" one of the men replied, helping his comrade up.
Partlow ran a hand through his greying hair, slicking it back as he turned to the mounted spyglass. His steel-grey eyes locked onto the smoking crater that had once been an entire city block. The breeze carried the acrid stench of raw crystallin energy. He inhaled it deep.
"Burgess wasn't bluffing," he said, stepping away from the glass. "This thing hits. Institute nerds might dress like librarians, but Maker help me, they can build a godsdamn monster."
The cannon loomed beside him—three stories tall, obsidian-plated with reinforced steel along the breech, its base fused to the truck-mounted chassis. Behind it, the core pulsed lavender, the hum growing louder as energy gathered. Partlow leaned forward, peering past it. Five more cannons lined the ridge, all in various stages of being loaded. Massive shells were rolled and hauled by teams of six, groaning under the weight but moving with precision. Clunky, sure—but the result was undeniable.
"Sir," a young guard approached, clipboard in hand, eyes wary. "Confirmed major damage to the target zone, but… we were slightly off. Struck about three hundred meters south of the intended coordinates."
"Then adjust two clicks left," Partlow said, without hesitation. "That'll make up for the drop." His eyes swept to the other batteries. "Status on the rest?"
"Ten to fifteen minutes to fire-ready, sir."
Partlow grinned. "Good. That'll light a fire under the old man's ass."
He scoffed, glancing toward the castle in the distance, its silhouette defiant against the smoke-filled sky.
"Blaise Windsor," he muttered. "Still thinks he can stare Burgess down and walk away with his precious school intact." He chuckled, low and sharp. "Well, he's about to learn there's some problems magic can't fix."
His gaze lingered on the towers of Excalibur.
"And he won't risk the students. Not Blaise. Not Mr. High and Righteous. He'll bend the knee—just like the rest of them. Like the Council. Like Uther." He smirked again, almost giddy with anticipation. "And I cannot wait to see the look on his face when he does."
A sudden crack split the sky.
Flames roared through the air, riding the wind with a deafening hiss. Partlow and his men instinctively looked up, eyes widening in disbelief at the sight of a blue fireball streaking overhead, its blazing trail slicing the clouds like a comet.
"What in the saggy ass crack of the Old Gods is—" Partlow muttered.
"Incoming!" one of the guards bellowed, pointing skyward. Chaos broke loose as soldiers scattered, diving for cover.
The fireball slammed into the earth just meters from where Partlow stood. The ground shuddered, a shockwave ripping through the trees as a column of fire and dirt exploded upward, showering debris. Cries rang out from the troops as the old commander threw an arm over his face, shielding himself from the blast.
Then came silence, broken only by the soft crunch of polished loafers on scorched soil.
Through the settling haze stepped a tall figure, his navy-blue robes barely rustled by the heat, white hair gleaming under the sun. Blaise Windsor.
The moment their eyes adjusted, every guard froze. Their expressions warped into disbelief, confusion—and fear.
"What the…" Partlow breathed, his jaw slack. He glanced from Blaise to the castle in the far distance, then back again. "How in the hell did you—what was that?!"
Blaise adjusted his half-moon spectacles with deliberate calm. His voice, when he spoke, was even—but beneath the surface simmered quiet fury.
"Burgess isn't the only one with surprises. It has certainly been a while, Partlow."
Partlow's brow furrowed. "Commander Partlow now, you old goat," he snapped. His eyes flicked about warily. "And surely you're not stupid enough to come alone."
"As much as I value the company of my peers," Blaise replied, brushing soot from his sleeve, "I felt this was a matter best handled personally."
His gaze shifted toward the distant smoking ruins of the city block, then back again. His jaw tightened.
"But let us skip the pleasantries, Commander. I've not come to strike a blow." He took a step forward, his sapphire eyes locking with Partlow's. "Despite your... regrettable actions, I've come to negotiate."
Blaise drew a slow breath. Shoulders set with quiet resolve. "Leave," he said. "Take your men. Return to your families. Put Burgess and his wretched coup behind you." He paused, sapphire gaze unflinching. "I make no promises that you'll escape the consequences of your actions. But you will live. And for now, that should be enough."
A long silence followed.
Then Partlow let out a sharp breath—and laughed. A low, humorless sound that grew into a fit of wheezing mirth. His chest trembled with it, hands on his hips, until he bent forward, cackling.
"Shit," he managed between laughs. "Burgess was right. I didn't want to believe it but hell, you aren't just a clown now, Windsor—you're the entire damned circus."
A few of his men, hesitant, glanced between each other before joining in with mocking chuckles of their own.
Partlow gestured behind him to the towering cannon, steam hissing from its vents. "What in the nine hells makes you think you've got any power here? With one word, I could turn your precious little school to cinders. Professors, students… every last one of them. Dead before they even knew it was coming."
Blaise's eyes narrowed. His hands remained at his sides, unmoved, though the air around him had grown subtly heavier.
"And you think," Partlow continued, stepping closer, "you could just waltz in here, no army, no weapon—just words—and expect us to kneel?" He tilted his head, sneering. "You're delusional, Windsor. You always were. You never could grasp the way the world really works."
Blaise exhaled, his gaze steady. "It seems time hasn't changed you at all, Partlow. Still the same brutish little man, clinging to violence like it grants you meaning." He shook his head. "No wonder Burgess keeps you close. You're precisely the kind of creature he thrives upon—cruel, thoughtless, easy to control."
Partlow's face darkened, but he smirked, stepping in, until only a few feet separated them.
"And you," he hissed, "you're not even a shadow of the man you once were. You used to terrify people. The Flame of the West."
Blaise's brow twitched. Just slightly. Around them, the guards began to murmur. Confused glances passed between them, the tension shifting like a sudden change in the wind.
"Oh, I remember. I served in the Nineteenth Platoon during siege of Khemed alongside you," Partlow said, eyes gleaming. "The bloody Council tried to scrub your past clean, but not me. I remember who you were." Words lowering to a sneer. "You were the man who made tyrants piss themselves in their sleep. They said you could end wars with a glance. You were feared."
He looked him up and down with contempt.
"But look at you now. Grey, worn down, soft." He leaned in, close enough that only Blaise could hear the next words. "You could've had it all. Glory. Power. Fame. A seat at the head of the table."
He pulled back, voice rising once again.
"But no. You threw it all away—for what?" He spat the word like it was poison. "You're not a hero, Windsor. You're a relic. A ghost pretending he still matters."
Blaise closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of years pressing against his chest. When he opened them again, his gaze locked onto Partlow's.
"You're quite right, Partlow," he said quietly.
A slow, self-satisfied smirk tugged at Partlow's lips.
"And also… quite wrong."
The smirk faltered.
"There once was a man the world called The Flame of the West," Blaise continued. "Just as there once was a man named Blaise Windsor. But neither of those men stand before you now. And if that confuses you…" His gaze sharpened. "It will become painfully clear should you refuse what I offer."
He looked past Partlow, addressing the soldiers directly. "I came in peace, with the hope that reason might prevail. That men given a chance to choose life over pride would take it."
A pause. His shoulders sank slightly, and for a moment, there was something almost mournful in his eyes. "But once again, I am reminded that seeing the good in others is my one greatest flaw."
His head rose.
"I was asking before," he said, now as cold as steel. "Now I am threatening."
The air around him shimmered faintly. "You will cease your bombardment… and you will leave this place."
A beat.
"Or you will burn. Along with everything you brought here."
There was a pause. Then Partlow's expression twisted. His jaw clenched, his patience finally shattered. "Alright. That's enough," he growled.
His right hand snapped to the hilt of his wand, drawing it in one swift motion and leveling it at Blaise. With his left, he reached out and grabbed a fistful of the old man's robe.
"Threaten all you like," he sneered. "But we both know you haven't got the balls to—"
He stopped.
His mouth opened slightly, words failing him as he noticed his hand. The tips of his fingers blackened. Cracking. Flaking away like brittle ash. The decay crept down his hand, past the first joint, the flesh withering and falling apart. Even the bone beneath began to splinter, disintegrating into powder.
His eyes snapped to Blaise who simply stared back, expression calm. Around them, the temperature shifted. Subtly at first. Then rapidly. The guards began to cough. Shirts loosened. Fingers tugged at collars. Sweat poured down faces as the heat intensified with each breath. A few staggered backwards. Wheezing, their lungs scorched by air that felt more like smoke. Someone cried out. The glass on one of the control panels cracked. The mirrors shattered. Paint on the nearby truck blistered and peeled.
"You see, fire is a curious thing," Blaise said softly, a chilling contrast to the agony creeping through the camp. "It lifted us from the dark. Gave us warmth, protection, sustenance. It is the beacon that kept the beasts at bay and lit our way through the long, black nights."
His gaze darkened. "But what it gives… it also reclaims."
Partlow's left hand disintegrated completely, staggering back in horror as his wrist blackened.
"The mistake people often make," Blaise went on, "is believing it's the flame that burns." He shook his head slowly. "No. It's the heat. Unseen. Untouchable. But ever so real."
The old man's sapphire eyes gleamed as the ash crept higher up Partlow's arm.
"A simple flame. Say, a candle, might sting. Scald the skin. But this?" He gestured faintly to the now crumbling arm. "This heat is several thousand times greater. Hot enough to soften steel. And yet… you don't feel it, do you?"
Partlow began to tremble.
"No screaming. No pain. Not yet." Blaise said. "That's because your nerves are gone, Partlow. Burned away long before your mind could even register the agony." His breath even, his gaze unflinching. "What I offered you and your men wasn't a chance... it was mercy."
"Kill him! Kill him now!" Partlow roared, panic seizing him as his wand slipped from his grasp. He clutched what remained of his arm, now severed at the elbow, blackened to the bone and crumbling to ash. "Kill him!"
Around them, the guards raised their wands. Fear in their eyes but duty in their hands.
Blaise didn't flinch. He cast a single glance in their direction, and in an instant, the air pulsed with arcane heat. One by one, the men ignited. Silent bursts of blue flame, reduced to drifting ash before they could even scream. Nothing remained but scorched footprints on the dirt.
Partlow's breath caught in his throat. He staggered backward, his face frozen in a mask of horror.
Blaise exhaled quietly and slipped a hand from the folds of his robe. The motion was fluid, effortless. Blue flames coiled around his arm like a serpent before unfurling into a long, elegant staff of blackened ebony. A sapphire crystal crowned the top, pulsing faintly with restrained, terrible power—cold, beautiful, and ancient.
He stepped forward.
"You were warned," Blaise said. "Like Burgess, you were offered the dignity of retreat. And now... all that remains… is fire."
****
Amidst the clash of steel and the shimmer of magic, the cries of soldiers and students echoed through the city below, rattling windows and shaking stone. On the rooftop, a door burst open with a loud metallic bang as Nikki Danvers kicked it off its hinges. Her once-tailored dress suit was shredded, stained with soot, dirt, and blood. Her heels were long gone, ripped off in frustration, and her bare feet scraped against the gravel as she stepped out, her teeth clenched against the sting.
Slung over her shoulder was a heavy duffel bag, swinging with each stride as she stormed toward the rooftop edge.
"Move your ass, Clarice! We don't have all day!" Vikki snapped, not even looking back.
Clarice, her halfling assistant, staggered up behind her, camera gear twice her size bouncing against her back. "Please, slow down, Miss Danvers," she wheezed. "This thing weighs a ton!"
"You wanted front-line journalism? You got it," Vikki growled, dropping to one knee and unzipping the bag with practiced speed. Inside, a compact transmitter buzzed to life as she flicked a few switches. Its lavender crystal core pulsed steadily as power surged through it.
"You think I landed the primetime slot by fetching coffee and kissing ass?" she added, plugging in a microphone and testing the line with a firm tap. A low hum answered. "Hell no. I fought for every damned second of air I got."
"But I'm not a reporter," Clarice stammered, still adjusting to the camera's weight. "I'm just your assistant—"
"Not anymore." Vikki gave her a sideways glance and a wry grin. "Congratulations, Clarice. You've just been promoted."
Clarice's gaze fell to Vikki's knuckles. Bloodied, raw, split open in places. "Is it true?" she asked quietly. "Did you really beat the snot out of the Producer?"
Vikki looked up, smirking. "Tried to stop me from taking the gear. I warned him—politely, I might add. He didn't listen." She stood, brushing ash off her skirt. "Honestly? Should've decked the bastard years ago. Filthy pig."
Clarice gave a breathless laugh. "I've followed your work for years, Miss Danvers. You made your name standing up for the truth. I just... I wish I had half your confidence."
Vikki's expression softened, the bravado giving way to something quieter. "I wasn't always this way. Trust me—I was the worst kind of brat back in my Excalibur days. Thought the world owed me everything." Her hand found Clarice's shoulder. "But people change. I changed. And so can you."
Clarice nodded, smile widening with fresh resolve. She lifted the camera, powered it on, and aimed the lens at her mentor. "We're live in three… two… one…"
The red light flickered on.
"Avalon," Vikki began, "this is Vikki Danvers, reporting live from the city of Caerleon, now under siege by former Director of the Clock Tower, Lamar Burgess, in what appears to be a final, desperate bid for—"
Suddenly, a thunderous explosion shattered the rooftop calm, rumbling through the air like the roar of a vengeful titan. Vikki and Clarice flinched at the sound, instinctively ducking. In the distance, where the artillery cannons had once stood tall against the skyline, towers of blue flame erupted one by one.
Clarice scrambled, jerking the camera toward the blast site, zooming in until the lens could go no further. Through the grainy magnification, the destruction unfolded in terrifying detail. The massive steel barrels now curled inward, twisted and sagging like softened wax. The surrounding trees burst into pillars of azure fire, their trunks cracking as bark and leaves disintegrated in the heat.
Vikki stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes locked onto the horizon, wide with disbelief. "What in the world…" she whispered, unable to finish the thought.
****
The forest was an inferno. Flames of sapphire blue danced along the trees, hissing and snarling as thick columns of smoke rose into the darkened sky. Partlow's legs had given out long ago. He lay sprawled amidst the scorched earth, his breath shallow, throat raw—not just from the blistering heat but from the paralysis of shock.
All around him, the encampment lay in ruin. The artillery cannons, once hailed as unbreakable monuments to Norsefire's future, had been reduced to twisted wreckage. Glowing slag oozed from ruptured steel, the armor plating—tested, retested, and certified against the most potent magical strikes—now nothing more than scrap and scattered bolts.
He remembered standing proudly beside Burgess as the Institute had demonstrated their might. They'd laughed. They'd toasted. These weapons, they believed, were untouchable. The dawn of a new world. And in less than ten minutes, one man had erased them all.
His missing arm barely registered. Whether from shock or the cauterizing heat, there was no pain—only the creeping coldness of dread. Through the smoke, Blaise moved like a wraith, his robes untouched by flame. Every soldier who dared approach, wand raised, sword brandished, or bow drawn, was reduced to ash with a glance. No incantation. No flourish. Only silence, followed by annihilation.
The ground had blackened beneath the weight of fire. Where Partlow sat, he could feel the earth beneath him crunch. No longer dirt, but glass, scorched and reshaped by impossible heat. He tried to stand, but his limbs failed. All around him, silence reigned. The screams were gone. The forest still. Only he remained.
Then Blaise turned his gaze on him.
"No—no, stay back!" Partlow scrambled, kicking against the cracked surface. Glass shards scraped his palm, cutting into flesh, drawing blood.
Blaise walked forward, slow, unhurried. "You remember what I told you," he said. "About neither of those men standing before you? Allow me to explain."
Partlow blinked. Something was wrong. Blaise's face flickered—just for a second. A subtle glitch, like a reflection disturbed in rippling water.
"You claimed to know me," Blaise continued. "But tell me, is that truly the case?"
A strange static buzzed behind Partlow's eyes. Disjointed memories flickered, bleeding together—snapshots of moments that didn't belong to him, or anyone.
"Have you ever heard the tale of Lumea and the Starbound Tree?" Blaise asked, pausing just a few feet from him. His staff remained steady at his side.
"What? The storybook?" Partlow rasped, eyes wide. "That kid's tale? What the hell does that have to do with any of this?"
Blaise paused, and then spoke. "There are those who believe Lumea was real. The forgotten sixth hero. She cast a spell—one so powerful, so ancient, it erased her from the world entirely. Not just her body or name… but the very memory of her."
He exhaled. "You're wondering why I bring this up. After all, it's just a story, isn't it? A bedtime fable." His sapphire eyes glinted. "But I tell you now, it's not."
Partlow's mouth dried further. "What… what are you saying?"
"I say this because I know the spell is real. Because it was used… on me."
Another glitch. This time longer. Blaise's face shimmered and twisted, for a moment revealing something different—something wrong.
"There was someone I loved, once," Blaise said softly. "More than life. More than reason. And to save me, like Lumea before them, they gave everything. Their name, their soul, their place in the world. Gone."
His word dipped, burdened. "But unlike the Starbound Acolyte, the spell was imperfect. It erased them… yet left behind echoes. Traces. And under great emotional duress, the spell weakens." He tilted his head slightly. "Sometimes… it even breaks."
"What you witnessed in Khemed. What you think you saw, was merely a patchwork of truths," Blaise said. "Even then, I showed you only a fragment of what I am. Had you seen me fully—truly—you and your men would've scattered long before your fear caught up with your feet."
He drew a quiet breath, almost mournful. "But then, it is ever the folly of men to let pride drown out reason."
Partlow trembled. His lips parted. "Y-you're not Blaise Winsor… are you?"
Blaise straightened. Slowly, he reached for his glasses and removed them. And as he opened his eyes, jets of roaring blue flame poured from them like a burning mask.
His reply was not cruel. Not loud. Just final.
"No."