The bells of the Excalibur clock tower rang out across Caerleon, but the time held no meaning anymore—not amidst the chaos sweeping through the streets. In some quarters, the fighting had slowed, as both sides paused to tend their wounded and resupply. In others, it raged on, fierce and unrelenting. AEGIS, the Congregation, and the city's militia stood shoulder to shoulder, pushing back the Norsefire tide. Both sides had suffered losses, but the weight of bloodshed leaned heavily against the invaders.
Flaming wrecks of Norsefire's armored vehicles littered the avenues. Once-touted warcasters, the supposed pinnacle of modern warfare, now lay in ruin. Twisted and smoldering, reduced to scorched metal and puddles of burnt oil. What had once been seen as invincible machines were now grim monuments to Burgess's arrogance.
Among Norsefire's ranks, morale had fractured. Many had already broken formation, deserting in fear. Some wept, others screamed, stumbling through alleys with empty eyes and blood-slick hands. Whatever they'd expected, it hadn't been this. They had thought themselves executioners, only to learn they were prey.
Swords clattered to the stones. Wands lay discarded in the dirt. The young and green ran for the edge of the city. Toward the tracks, the hills, anywhere that didn't lead to death or reckoning. Cowards or not, they fled Burgess's dream like rats from a sinking ship.
But on the southern front, the fire still burned.
The battle there was brutal, a raw and savage clash of steel and spell. Blades met blades. Magic collided in bursts of violent light. Bodies dropped in grotesque choreography. Limbs severed, eyes wide, breath lost before a final scream.
Salazar stood in the thick of it. Twin spears twirled in his hands, blackened steel flashing with precision. Each deflection came with a spark. Each counter a blur of motion. He ducked beneath a slash, carved one man across the neck, then drove the second blade deep into another's gut. Both collapsed before their bodies even realized they were dead.
With a flick of the wrist, he joined the spears at the center, reforming them into one. The weapon spun in his grasp as he carved a path through the next wave. Guards dropping with agonized cries, some dead before they hit the ground, others writhing as venom blackened their veins.
His emerald eyes swept the battlefield and caught sight of Helena and Jeanne, back-to-back, unleashing blasts of magic with focused fury. Around them, the battlefield swirled with flame and smoke, the air thick with dust and ash. Shattered stone littered the ground. Glass crunched beneath their boots. Here, death hung in the air like perfume. Sharp, bitter, and inescapable.
Salazar had fought before. Duels, skirmishes, assassinations. He had faced three men with a wand, six with a spear. But this… this was war. A hundred locked in a dance of violence, rage, and survival. And yet, in the heart of it all, something unsettling settled over him. Not fear, not panic, but calm.
The sound of Helena's cry pierced through the chaos, snapping Salazar's attention to her. He turned just in time to see her collapse, clutching her scorched arm. Her sleeve was charred, smoke rising from the burn.
"Helena!" Jeanne shouted, rushing to her side. She dropped to her knees, shielding her with one arm, her sapphire eyes lifting to the Norsefire soldier stomping toward them—wand raised, eyes locked.
Jeanne gritted her teeth, her own wand rising. "Stupefy!"
A flash of blue burst from the tip, but the spell was deflected with a wave of his wand. He raised his wand with a sneer. "Avada—"
He never finished.
The spear crashed through the side of his skull with a sickening crack, the blade punching through and emerging just beside his opposite eye. Blood poured from his nose, his sockets, his mouth. His body stood frozen, twitching, before Salazar appeared like a phantom. With one hand, he yanked the embedded spear free; with the other, he swung his second weapon in a tight arc and severed the man's head clean from his neck. The corpse dropped in a heap, a geyser of blood painting the stones red.
Salazar turned to the girls, his weapons floating beside him. He dropped to one knee. Concern clear on his face.
"Are you alright?" he asked, eyes flicking to the burn.
Helena winced but forced a smile. "Yeah… I'm okay. Just a scratch, that's all."
Around them, the tide of battle surged again. Cries of wounded students, the clash of spells, the shrieks of Norsefire war cries. Salazar's eyes swept the field. Bodies lay strewn across the ground. Some moving, many not. Medics and volunteers struggled to tend to the fallen, but the fight had crept too close. They wouldn't last long.
His gaze darkened. Jaw tightening. Fingers curled to a fist.
He looked back to Jeanne and Helena. "Rally the survivors. Gather the wounded. Get them behind the barricades."
"Wait—what?" Helena pushed herself up with her good arm. "Salazar, what are you doing? What are you saying?"
"I'm going to lead them away." His voice was calm, certain. "Buy you time. Perhaps send a few more to meet their makers while I'm at it."
The twin spears drifted into his open hands, as if answering a silent call.
Helena shook her head. "No. No, you can't—"
"I can," he said. "And I must."
Jeanne looked at him, stunned. "You won't survive alone."
Salazar's lips curled into a faint smile. "Then it's a good thing I've never been alone." His eyes returned to Helena. "Even more so now."
She looked up at him, cheeks flushed with color. Then, without warning, she grabbed him by the front of his jacket and pulled him into a kiss, fierce and sudden. Salazar froze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, then his eyes closed and he leaned into her, the world fading for just that moment. Jeanne's face went scarlet. She blinked at them, then looked away, flustered, muttering something under her breath.
When Helena finally pulled back, her fingers lingered on his coat. "If you die out there, Salazar Slytherin, I'll never forgive you."
Salazar gave a quiet smirk. "Then I suppose I'll do my best not to disappoint." He straightened, gaze flicking between them. "Ladies."
Then he turned, stepping back into the chaos. Flames and smoke danced in the wind as he sprinted through the ruined streets, blades flashing, cutting down the first few soldiers that crossed his path. Blood sprayed the stones as bodies hit the ground.
Salazar halted in the center of the street and faced the enemy ranks head-on.
"Hey!" he shouted, loud and cutting through the din of battle. "You pathetic, flea-bitten Norsefire rats!"
Dozens of heads snapped in his direction.
"If you've been wondering who razed your precious little detention centers and butchered those pitiful excuses for captains, look no further." Salazar spread his arms. "It was me!"
His words rang sharp through the battlefield haze.
"I killed them. Every last revolting swine who wore your colors. Your cherished friends. Your brothers-in-arms. The ones you drank with, bled with, swore oaths beside," he said. "I opened them up like cattle. Bled them like sheep at slaughter. They didn't die as heroes—they died as they lived, whimpering cowards, choking on their own fear, begging for mercy that never came."
A beat passed.
"And let me tell you," he said, his grin darkening, "their screams were pitiful!"
A roar erupted from the soldiers as rage surged through the crowd. Dozens broke into a charge, weapons raised. Salazar cast one last glance toward Jeanne and Helena before turning and sprinting down the street, the mob thundering after him.
Jeanne helped Helena to her feet, her face still flushed. "Come on," she said. "Let's not waste what he just gave us."
Helena nodded, still watching where he'd gone. "Let's move."
Together, they turned and made for the barricades—toward the wounded, toward the fight still left to win.
****
Salazar twirled his spear. The twin blades a blur of steel and death as he carved through Norsefire ranks with ruthless precision. He'd drawn them to a wide clearing not too far from the gates. An open stretch hemmed in by charred, half-demolished shophouses, their broken facades ablaze or crumbling under the strain of battle. He stood alone at the center, ringed by corpses, breath ragged, his clothes clinging to him—soaked through with sweat and blood.
A blade found his back. He staggered with a sharp cry, but the strike failed to pierce skin, caught by the layers of woven armor beneath his coat. He turned sharply, eyes flaring with fury, and drove his spear into the throat of his attacker. The man gurgled, blood frothing from his mouth before he collapsed in a twitching heap.
More poured in. Dozens of them, called like flies to the stench of death. Salazar's eyes swept the growing tide, the grim curve of a smile tugging at his lips. This was precisely what he'd planned. The longer they focused on him, the more time it bought the others to regroup, to pull the wounded back from the brink.
He spun his spear like a staff, lashing out in wide figure-eight arcs, slicing through steel and bone with brutal grace. Each strike landed true. Some foes dropped instantly, their lifeblood spilling across the stone. Others died slower, writhing as the venom worked its way through them, black veins streaking across their skin. Blood poured from their ears, their eyes, their mouths. Some choked and foamed as their lungs collapsed from within.
Salazar spun the spear behind his shoulders, catching it again in one hand, moving with a dancer's poise and a killer's intent.
He had never considered himself a spearman. Salazar had always preferred the elegance of spellcraft to the barbarism of steel. His technique was crude compared to Cú Chulainn's, a pale imitation next to Godric's raw might. But today, that didn't matter. Today, he fought with the fury of a serpent, and his spear struck with the precision of its fangs.
And mercy had long since left his hands.
Salazar spun his spear, the twin blades slicing through the air with a shrill whistle, his posture coiled like a spring, the weapon held low behind him. The Norsefire guards circled warily, none daring to step closer than a few paces. Their spells had been deflected, their swords shattered, their spears snapped like kindling. Blood stained the stones around him, but still he stood.
"Come on, then!" he shouted. He bared his teeth in a grimace, eyes burning. "Let's see what your cowardice looks like up close!"
But the blow came from behind. A curse struck him squarely in the back, and in an instant, his body seized. His limbs locked as if encased in stone, his jaw clenched shut. The spear slipped from his grasp and clattered against the cobblestone, the sound ringing like a bell in the heavy air. He crashed forward, landing hard on his chest with a grunt.
Body-Bind. Of course.
He cursed inwardly, teeth grinding, every muscle screaming to move but nothing obeyed. Within seconds, hands were on him, rough and eager. His arms were yanked behind his back, rope biting into his wrists. They hauled him to his feet, dragging rather than walking him through the streets. His boots scraped across the bloodied stone.
Part of him wondered why they hadn't killed him outright. A cleaner end. Quicker. But the answer was obvious. These were bottom-rung thugs. The sort that wouldn't dare claim the kill for themselves, not when their master would flay them alive for robbing him of the pleasure.
A grim smile crept onto Salazar's face, despite the pain and the weight of defeat. He tilted his head as far as the curse allowed, the ghost of defiance still etched into his features.
****
Bastion drove the tip of his greatsword into the earth, the blade crunching through stone with a satisfying crack as it stood tall beside him. He exhaled, long and slow, rolling his shoulders until his spine let out a dull pop. His mismatched eyes swept across the battlefield. For now, the fighting in this sector had quieted. Bodies littered the streets: Norsefire guards sprawled where they'd fallen, some still clutching weapons, others curled as if they'd died begging. The screams had faded. Only the low murmurs of medics and healers remained.
He glanced down at himself—soaked in sweat and blood. His uniform was torn at the seams, the once-proud crest stained and half-scorched. Dents and cracks lined his armor: chestplate warped, bracers scuffed and scored by blade and spell alike. His greatsword, still warm to the touch, bore the scorched black of dried blood burned into the silver edge.
Frank had moved on, barking orders to troops, reinforcing the barricades, directing squads to the districts where fighting still raged. Bastion watched him go before lifting his face to the sky. For a moment, he smiled.
As a boy, he remembered his grandfather stumbling home from battle. Armor shredded, tunic bloodied, head wrapped in gauze that soaked through by the hour. They'd called Wilhelm Overdeath, a title born of sheer stubbornness, because he refused to die no matter what hell he'd been thrown into. The old man always said, "If death wants me, he'll have to make an appointment—and I'll cancel it twice."
But even Overdeath couldn't outrun time. No blade took him in the end. He'd kept his word there. It was sickness that rotted him from within, and when he could no longer walk, he made peace with the end on his own terms.
Bastion had always wondered why Wilhelm fought so hard. Why he bled for strangers. Why he charged into fire and steel when he could've stayed behind.
Now he understood. Most people would never know the weight of a sword. Never see the way a man's eyes changed when life left him. They'd dream of families, warm meals, children laughing in gardens untouched by war. Not everyone was made to be a soldier. Not everyone should be.
And that was the point.
His grandfather fought to protect that peace. And so would he.
A tired smile touched his lips, but it quickly faded. From the corner of his eye, something moved—low and slithering across the scorched cobblestone.
He turned. A snake.
White as fresh snowfall, its scales gleamed unnaturally in the firelight. It slithered with eerie purpose, weaving through the wreckage until it stopped just short of his boots. In its mouth, it carried an envelope, sealed with a wax crest he didn't recognize.
Bastion frowned, scanning the street. No sign of a sender. No movement but the snake.
Cautiously, he knelt and plucked the envelope from its jaws. The serpent gave a low hiss. Not hostile, more like a warning to pay attention—then stayed perfectly still, as though waiting for his reaction.
He stared at it for a moment longer, then opened the letter.
His eyes ran over the first line.
And then they widened.
****
The mid-day sun bled through the shattered remains of the stained-glass windows, casting fractured light over the ruined sanctum of the Sanctist church. Pews lay in splinters across the cracked flagstones. The altar was buried in a mosaic of dust and broken glass—remnants of the battle between Helga and Astrea days prior. The air still carried the faint scent of scorched stone and smoke.
Two monks, heads bowed, were in the process of lowering the hanging lantern to refuel it when the side doors slammed open with a thunderous crack.
Hartshorne stormed in, his boots echoing off the vaulted arches. A unit of armored guards followed behind, their presence grim and wordless. He swept through the debris-strewn aisle, face twisted with rage.
"There is a bloody war outside," he snapped. "The city is under siege, and what do I find? You Sanctist whoresons fiddling with bloody lanterns. Is there literally, nothing else you could be doing?!"
The monks jolted in terror. One lost his grip on the lantern—it fell with a crash, shattering on the stone. Glass and metal split apart as oil spilled across the floor, pooling like blood at the foot of the altar. Their robes flared behind them as they stumbled back in panic, tripping over splintered pews and each other in their desperate flight.
Hartshorne stopped, standing alone in the heart of the ruined church, exhaling hard as he pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. The weight of it all bore down on him like a vice. His troops were thinning by the hour. The casualty count had become meaningless—faces he would never remember lost in the haze of blood and smoke. Warcasters lay in shattered heaps, reduced to burning wreckage. And now, silence from the artillery lines. Not even static.
He hadn't seen this coming. Not him, not even Burgess. And if the grumbling of the older veterans was anything to go by, men who had followed them into the fires of the Camelot Insurrection, neither had they.
No one had expected defiance.
The people of Avalon? Sheep. Cattle. Conditioned to kneel at the first sign of a blade.
But not these ones. Not Caerleon. Not the students of Excalibur, and most certainly not the Congregation.
He let out a snarl and kicked a splintered beam, sending it clattering across the stone. Those blasted students. That damned High Table. Their stupid oaths and archaic rituals. He'd thought it all theatre—some desperate grasp at lost grandeur, a bid for legacy in a world that no longer cared for honor.
But he was wrong.
They weren't fighting for glory.
They weren't even fighting to win.
They fought because they believed in something. Fought with a fury he hadn't seen in years.
No… with a fury he hadn't felt in years.
Because once, long ago, he too had worn the colors of a Clan.
And now he found himself standing on the other side of the blade.
The sharp echo of grunts broke through the ruined stillness of the church. Hartshorne turned, his eyes narrowing at the sight of six guards dragging a battered, dirt-streaked student across the stone. The boy kicked and twisted against them, but they hauled him forward and slammed him to his knees. The guards stepped back, forming a loose circle.
Hartshorne took a step closer, his brow furrowed, not with confusion, but with interest. When the boy looked up, their gazes met. A familiar smirk curled at the corner of Salazar's lips.
Hartshorne froze. Then, slowly, he dropped to one knee, leveling his eyes with the young man's.
"Slytherin," he muttered.
Only Salazar's labored breathing filled the silence. Hartshorne studied him with a gaze torn between betrayal and fury, running a hand down his face before it settled at his mouth. He exhaled, sharp and slow.
"You and your little friends have caused me quite the bit of trouble, boy," he said through clenched teeth.
Salazar chuckled, the sound dry and cracked. "Oh, your troubles are just beginning, Sheriff," he rasped. "All of Avalon knows. About you. About the Director. Color me curious, you could've run. Cut ties with Burgess and disappeared into obscurity. But against all sense of reason… here you are. Wagging your tail, still barking on command. I suppose some dogs really don't know when to lie down."
Hartshorne's nostrils flared. "I thought you were different. That beneath all the filth and hypocrisy of Excalibur, you were the diamond I'd been searching for. The one who understood what this world demanded." His voice wavered, more bitter than wounded. "What a bloody waste. Of all people, I never expected you to be the one to betray me."
"Don't flatter yourself," Salazar hissed. "Betrayal implies loyalty. I've never held a shred of it for you. Not from the moment we met." He strained against the ropes. "I saved your miserable life twice—for one reason. So, you'd walk me right to Lamar Burgess like the obedient mutt you are. That's it."
He scoffed, the smirk hardening into something far colder. "What Burgess did to my friend was beyond forgiveness. When I saw him, reduced to a husk, a shadow of the man he once was—I made a vow. I would take Burgess's head, and in doing so, send the Clock Tower and every arrogant, detestable little wretch within it a message they'd never forget." He leaned in slightly, eyes glinting. "You lay a hand on those I care for… and you pay in blood.
Salazar's jaw tightened. "Truth be told, I spent weeks imagining how I'd end the both of you. Quietly, cleanly, another tragic mystery the tabloids would chew on for months. Never thought he'd be mad enough to light the match himself—and drag you into the blaze with him."
Hartshorne laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Shrewd. Twisted. I'll give you that. Under different circumstances, I might've even admired you." His eyes narrowed. "The Serpent of Ferrum… fitting title. But regardless of your clever little plans, boy—you've lost. You've failed."
Salazar tilted his head, that cold smirk never leaving his face. "Have I?" he murmured. "Tell me, my dear Sheriff—how fares your little campaign?"
Hartshorne's jaw tensed, the faintest flicker of doubt flashing across his eyes. Salazar caught it, and his grin widened.
"In truth, you could kill me now. Avada Kedavra if you fancy something traditional. Slit my throat, spill my blood across this shattered floor if you're feeling especially dramatic." He shrugged as much as his restraints would allow. "But it won't change a thing. Because I'm not the one marked for death. Not when the dust settles."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting. "You're not a fool, Hartshorne. You're calculated. Precise. A man who prides himself on logic over passion. So, I know you've asked yourself—what happens when the flames die and the smoke begins to clear?"
Hartshorne said nothing, though his silence spoke volumes.
"Let's suppose you succeed," Salazar continued. "Excalibur falls. The students are taken. Your master cackles in some gilded tower. And then what? What's your next move, Sheriff?" He cocked his head. "You control the board. You dictate the terms. You think you've won every hand. But no one wins forever."
"You won't admit it, but neither of you has an endgame," Salazar said coolly. "Burgess isn't a man of reason. He's a petulant child playing war, convinced the world owes him a reckoning. And you?" He let the word hang for a beat. "You're nothing more than a tool. Useful, until you're not. Just another log on the pyre he'll light when the world stops applauding."
"Enough," Hartshorne snapped, but Salazar only leaned in further.
"And besides, what do you think the Council will do to you? Now that your treason's laid bare? What do you suppose King Uther will do, knowing you had turned your blade on his people back during the Insurrection, not for peace, but your own personal gain?" A wicked glint flickered behind his eyes. "Do you think he'll just take your head?"
He paused, and the smirk sharpened.
"Or will he give you the broomstick first?"
Hartshorne's face went slack. Then, ever so slightly, a smile twitched at the corner of his lips, curling slowly into something colder. He rose to his feet, Salazar's gaze tracking him with suspicion. The Sheriff turned his back, shoulders trembling with a rasped, bitter chuckle that spilled from his throat like bile. He took a few steps toward the altar, eyes drifting to the fractured stained-glass above. The light catching on the warped cruciform insignia. Then, without warning, he spun on his heel and drove his boot square into Salazar's chest.
The air was torn from Salazar's lungs in a single strangled choke as he crashed hard onto the stone floor. Before he could recover, the shriek of drawn steel cut through the silence. Hartshorne straddled him in a blink, pressing one hand against his face, the other brandishing a dagger. The blade kissed the boy's throat, cold and sharp, a bead of blood welling beneath its edge.
"I'm going to boil you in your own piss, boy," Hartshorne growled, "and when I'm done, I'll send your little friends—yes, even that tart Burgess fancies—straight to the goblin nests. Let them scream through every filthy round of it, again, and again, and again."
Salazar didn't flinch. He stared up at him, a thin smirk etched across his face, mocking even under the threat of death.
"That's a disturbingly vivid account of your kinks, Sheriff," he drawled. "But then again, I imagine at your age, you'd do just about anything to feel a flicker of blood rush south."
Hartshorne's jaw clenched. Salazar's smirk deepened.
"Unfortunately, you've forgotten one tiny little detail."
Hartshorne hissed, "And what's that?"
"That a man like me doesn't walk into the lion's den without a plan."
The Sheriff's eyes went wide. Bolts of magic screamed through the air, striking the surrounding guards in their chests. Hartshorne turned just in time to see a blur of metal and fury. The blunt of a greatsword slammed into his cheek, snapping his head sideways and flinging him off Salazar like a rag doll. He hit the ground with a crash, skidding across the shattered stones as blood flew from his mouth. Two teeth clattering after him across the marble.
Bastion stood at the threshold, his mismatched eyes ablaze. His sword rested on his shoulder, the engines in its hilt thrumming as he revved it once. Flames roared from the exhaust ports.
"Bring it!" he barked.
The surviving guards snapped to alert, blades drawn, wands raised. Bastion met them head-on, swinging the massive blade with a precision that belied its size. Fire trailed every arc of the blade, cleaving steel and flesh alike. Swords shattered, bones broke, screams rang.
Salazar rose, rolling his shoulders. With a sharp whistle, his twin spears wrenched themselves free from one guard's hands and flew through the air, the tips slicing through his restraints before snapping into his open palms. He turned, eyes narrowing on Hartshorne as the older man struggled on the ground, coughing blood, hands groping uselessly at the stone.
Bastion's gaze darted to the shattered lantern on the floor, at the spilled oil glistening darkly. He grinned, raised his boot, and kicked the wreckage straight into the oncoming guards. Oil sprayed across them, slick and cold. They paused, glancing down at the trail of liquid connecting them back to Bastion—and realized, too late.
The greatsword roared to life. Flames danced up the blade as Bastion dragged its edge across the floor with a deafening screech. The moment the oil caught, fire erupted in a wave, washing over the guards in a furious inferno. Screams tore through the sanctum as the smell of burning hair and searing flesh filled the air. One by one, the bodies dropped, writhing, then still.
****
Salazar scraped his twin spears together, the shriek of blackened metal against metal sparking a cascade of harsh sparks. The sound carved through the air like teeth on stone, enough to chill the blood of even the hardened.
"Get up," he growled, stepping toward Hartshorne. "We're not finished. So, get. Up."
Hartshorne's eyes went wide. He scrambled upright with a grunt, then bolted toward the church doors—only to stop dead at the threshold.
A sea of movement slithered across the floor. Hundreds of snakes poured into the sanctuary, scales glinting in the fractured light, hissing in waves as they fanned across the stone like a living tide. Hartshorne staggered back, horror etching across his face as the serpents closed in.
"You've spent your life hiding behind titles and protocol," Salazar said. "Slithering through the cracks of bureaucracy, wielding influence as a shield against consequence."
He stepped before the altar, eyes hard. "But there are no shields left, Sheriff. Just rules. And consequences." His gaze darkened. "You broke the rules. And I… am your consequence."
The snakes began to coil in a wide circle around them, closing them off from the outside. One in particular, its scales pure white, slid up Salazar's leg, coiling across his shoulder. Its eyes locked onto Hartshorne, tongue flicking.
Hartshorne stared in disbelief. His throat bobbed.
"Demon… monster…" he stammered. "I've heard the stories. The ones who speak the tongue of serpents… the tongue of the damned…"
"Devil. Fiend. Hellspawn. Abomination. Take your pick," Salazar muttered, spinning one spear in his hand. "Every language, every culture has a word for what I am. And they're all right."
From the far side, the snakes parted as Bastion strode forward, his greatsword now sheathed across his back. His mismatched eyes scanned the scene. Snakes, shattered pews, and Hartshorne pale as bone.
"You certainly took your time," Salazar remarked.
"In case you missed it, there's kinda like a huge war going on outside," Bastion said, shaking his head. "Not everyone's goanna stop and let me waltz through like I'm walking a line of ducklings."
Salazar gave the faintest smile. "Honestly, I wasn't sure you'd come. So… thank you."
"I was goanna say you owe me," Bastion replied, his eyes narrowing on Hartshorne. "But watching this smug little bastard get what's coming to him? Yeah—call it even."
Hartshorne's lips curled in disgust. "Reinhardt. You miserable, treacherous runt."
Bastion tilted his head, smirking. "I warned you, didn't I? Told you when those walls of yours came crashing down, try not to be standing beneath them."
He folded his arms across his chest. "I've wanted to split your head open since the day we met," he said flatly. "And truth be told, I still might."
He paused, then looked to Salazar. "But you're not mine to finish. Not today." He chuckled faintly. "Whatever the kid's got planned for you, it's goanna be a hell of a lot worse than what I'd cook up."
Salazar's eyes locked onto the older man, his expression devoid of mercy.
"Well then," he said quietly. "This is it. And as tempting as it is to run you through and be done with it…" He stepped forward. "I'm not the sort who butchers a man with his back against the wall. That's your style, not mine."
He raised his spear and pointed it directly at Hartshorne.
"Your escape. Your salvation. If you want either, you'll have to earn it. Over my cold, dead corpse. So, consider this my challenge… my Bellum Inter Duos."
A beat. Then his voice rang clear through the ruined sanctuary.
"You and me. Sheriff George Hartshorne against Salazar Slytherin. Single combat." He let it settle like a weight. "No quarter."
Hartshorne's lip twitched, his gaze narrowing as his hand went to the hilt at his hip. With a sharp draw, he unsheathed his blade, the steel glinting beneath the fractured light.
"You're going to regret this, boy," he snarled.
Salazar's smirk was cold and joyless.
"The only regret I carry," he said, lowering into a ready stance, "is that I didn't let Valerian carve you into ribbons when I had the chance." He raised his spear, the metal hissing as it sliced through the air. "But I mean to correct that. Personally."
He steadied himself.
"So then, en garde!"