For hours, Langston had stayed underground with his troops, holding position to protect Caerleon's civilians. For hours, the only sound had been the distant rumble of explosions and the deep, bone-felt tremors that coursed through the stone. More than once, he thought the tunnels would give way, burying them all beneath tons of dirt and rubble but the ancient passages had stood for centuries, and for now, they held.
When another violent series of shocks rattled the walls, his patience finally gave out. Curiosity, and a gnawing unease, drove him to the surface.
The streets he emerged into were the aftermath of hell. Bodies lay where they'd fallen, blood slicking the cobblestones. Buildings burned in staggered rows, their skeletal frames spitting sparks into the night. Vehicles lay twisted into heaps of smoking metal. Here and there, he passed AEGIS guards, Clan warriors, and local militia moving prisoners, Norsefire troops, disarmed and on their knees.
The battle, for now, was over. Under the dark sky, Langston allowed himself the smallest breath of relief. It wouldn't be over until the Tower's forces secured the city, but they'd bought themselves a fragile window of safety.
Rounding a corner, he spotted a familiar figure.
Frank stood with a cluster of AEGIS officers, no doubt organizing sweeps to root out the last of Burgess' men. Langston broke into a jog.
"Frank!"
The older man turned, eyes widening. "Langston? What the hell are you doing topside? I thought—"
"Relax. The tunnels are secure," Langston said, studying him with a frown. "You, on the other hand, look like you got dragged through a meat grinder."
Frank looked it. Armor scored and dented, some plates hanging by a thread. Blood had soaked through makeshift bandages, his uniform torn in several places. Cuts and bruises marked his face, yet he still stood as if ready for another round.
"Heh. You should've seen the other guys," Frank said with a crooked grin. Then, softer, "I won't lie, though. Got close a couple times. Guess I'm not as quick on my feet as I used to be."
Langston smirked. "Could've joined you."
"I know," Frank replied, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "But I needed you where you'd matter most. Just in case the Gods decided to punch my ticket home."
Langston's gaze swept the street. "Where's your partner?"
"Off somewhere, probably still putting Norsefire dogs in the dirt," Frank said. "You should've seen him. Kid fought with the same fire Wilhelm did. Gods rest him, the old man would've been damned proud."
Langston's laugh was short but warm. "Yeah… I believe that."
The ground suddenly jolted beneath them as an explosion tore through the air, a sharp crack that rattled every bone in their bodies. Ears ringing, both men staggered to keep their footing. They looked skyward. A column of smoke billowed into the night, its shape twisting in the firelight. Their eyes met, unspoken agreement passing between them, then they took off down the street, heading for the source.
****
The shockwave tore through the night with a deafening crack, a sound that rolled across all of Caerleon and made the very air vibrate. Windows shattered in a rain of glittering shards. Stone walls split apart as if peeled open, buildings dissolving into clouds of pulverized brick and flying beams. The ground convulsed, splitting into jagged chasms that spat molten rock into the choking darkness.
Godric was thrown like a ragdoll, wreathed in flame that clung to him like a living shroud. He smashed through collapsing walls, steel beams shrieking as they bent and crashed in his wake. Somewhere in the blast, Lamar vanished—swallowed whole by the storm of fire and purple lightning. His scream cut through the chaos for only a heartbeat before being drowned in the roar.
A full city block was gone. What remained was a yawning crater of twisted rebar, splintered stone, and burning wreckage. Vehicles lay overturned and caved in, some reduced to molten puddles cooling on the fractured street. The air was a suffocating haze. Smoke and dust heavy with the tang of scorched metal and blood, blotting out the stars overhead.
At its center, the firestorm raged on, curling high into the sky as if the earth itself had split to vomit hellfire into the heart of Caerleon.
Within that inferno, movement stirred. Godric rose slowly from the rubble, debris rolling off his bare frame. His jacket and boots were gone, burned to ash, leaving only the shredded remains of his cargo pants. Half his body. His chest, arm, and part of his face were scorched down to exposed bone. Both hands were gone, one side of his skull laid bare, hair burned to the roots.
His jaw clenched as black flames licked along the wounds. Muscle knitted itself over bone in thick cords. Skin hissed as it reformed, fingers taking shape from the skeletal framework upward until he stood whole again, the last traces of fire fading from his skin.
Flexing his new fingers into a tight fist, Godric stepped down from the rubble, amber eyes locking on the blackened sword buried blade-first in the ground beside his own.
A low groan pulled his gaze forward. Through the thinning smoke, a figure emerged.
Lamar.
His torso was bare, what remained of his clothes in burned tatters. Patches of his skin were scorched and blistered, blood streaking down his face from a half-shut left eye. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side, crimson running freely down it. The cut through his cheek still gaped, teeth and muscle exposed in a grim, jagged snarl. And in his good hand, his wand remained. Confirmation enough that he had thrown up a protection spell in those last moments. Even so, Godric knew it had been luck as much as magic that kept him alive.
Godric's gaze hardened as he stepped toward the two swords buried in the fractured ground. His hand hovered over the royal-blue hilt of his own blade then shifted, closing instead around the blackened hilt of the Sword of Damocles. The steel hissed free with the low trill of a reaper's scythe. He turned it once in his grip, slicing the air as he stepped forward, shards of glass crunching beneath his bare feet. His eyes never left the old man.
Lamar's one good eye held its focus, a smirk curling his bloodied lips. Though they trembled, betraying the strain it took to remain standing.
"You're a very hard man to kill, Gryffindor," Lamar said, blood trailing from his chin. His cough was wet and ragged.
His wand flicked up, spitting a bolt of emerald light. Godric slipped aside, the blast searing past his shoulder. Another came—dodged again. Godric kept moving forward, unhurried.
"I suppose I should say I've always admired you," Lamar went on, shuffling back. His burnt boots scraped against the stone, the charred leather barely holding to the soles. "Since the very first day I heard your name. I want you to understand that."
A flurry of green bolts tore through the air. Godric dodged the first, then raised his blade, cleaving through the others in streaks of dissipating light.
"You wanted something, you took it." Lamar staggered back, his boots scraping over stone, his chest heaving. "You wanted the world to burn, you set it alight. You wanted to send a message, you carved it in the blood of all who stood in your way."
His wand snapped up. An emerald bolt ripped across the ruined block. Godric's blade flashed, cleaving the spell clean in two, the fragments scattering into dying sparks. He rolled his wrist, the sword spinning in a blur, his stride quickening, each step hammering closer.
"You did what you had to do!" Lamar snarled, blood spraying between his teeth. "And you made no apologies!"
Another spell tore through the air. Godric swept it aside, his blade singing as it split the magic. The force rippled outward, kicking up dust and ash.
"But killing me?" Lamar spat. "Killing me won't give you what you want, Gryffindor!" His good eye burned, desperate, furious. "It won't right the wrongs. It won't bring her back. No matter how much you believe it, it will never give you back what you've lost!"
Another shot of green light burst from his wand. Godric surged forward, dropping low under the blast, his sword spinning in his wrist before snapping upward. The blade sheared through Lamar's wand. Fragments of wood fell to the ground.
Lamar's eyes went wide.
Godric's sword came around again, the blackened steel carving a deep line across Lamar's chest. The older man staggered, spinning before crashing to the ground.
Flat on his back, Lamar wheezed, his breaths ragged. His gaze locked on Godric above him.
"You… bastard," he spat. "You wretched, low-born, filthy little mongrel!" His one good eye burned with hatred. "So… what are you waiting for?" He nodded toward the black blade in Godric's grip. "Do it. You know you want to."
Godric's gaze stayed locked on him, the hilt trembling faintly in his grip.
"Do it!" Lamar barked. "I won't beg. I won't grovel like some gutless cur. I'll not hand you the satisfaction you're craving. So, end it—run me through, take my head, whatever it is that'll smother that pitiful fire still burning in you!"
Godric's jaw tightened.
Then Lamar's gaze dropped to the snowflake pendant at his neck, and a slow, vile grin twisted across his bloodied face. "What's wrong? Second thoughts? Feeling your cowardice gnaw at you? Will you just stand there… and do nothing?" His eyes gleamed. "Just as you did when Ravenclaw took your little pelt from you?"
Godric's breath hitched.
"It must have torn you apart, didn't it?" Lamar pressed. "Knowing everything you had. Everything you shared, snatched away. And yet you clutch at her memory as if she even remembers who you are." He chuckled, low and cold. "After all you've endured. After that duel with Dryfus, freeing her from bondage, how exquisitely cruel it must have been, to come so close, only to have her slip away again."
Godric's hands shook, his breathing quickening, his pupils narrowing to pinpoints.
"I'll be honest with you, boy," Lamar sneered. "That law. The one that took her from you. Wasn't my doing. It was a relic from before my time. But by the Gods, I wish it had been." His grin widened, madness flickering in his good eye.
"How I'd have savored the sight of you drowning in your own misery. Knowing you were too weak to save her. Too pathetic to change a thing. And the sweetest part of all?" He raised his head. "Even if I fall at your blade, she'll never be yours. Not in this life… nor the next."
Godric's fingers locked around the hilt, both hands gripping tight as he raised the sword high over his head. Then slowly inverted the blade. The veins of fire along its blackened steel flared brighter, bathing his face in a hellish glow. His expression darkened, shadowed by a fury that left no room for doubt.
In the depths of his mind, the haze of battle fell away, and he saw them. Damocles standing at the forefront, his presence cold. Behind him loomed an army of shadowed figures, their forms indistinct yet suffocatingly real. Hundreds of eyes glimmered faintly in the dark, all fixed on him. Damocles' face, pale and rigid, held no trace of amusement or malice. Only a hollow, lifeless stillness, as if judging him without a word.
"Godric, no!" Rowena's voice tore across the charred block.
Lamar's head snapped toward the sound. There she stood with Bran, Winston, Asriel, and the girl Jeanne, whom he'd met months ago. All of them frozen, eyes wide, fixed on Godric. From the other side of the block, Frank and Langston emerged from the smoke, their expressions hardening to shock as they took in the sight.
Lamar's smirk returned, cruel and goading, before his gaze slid back to his would-be executioner.
"Come on then!" he roared. "Do it!"
"Gryffindor, stop!" Bran's voice rang out, strained.
"Lad!" Langston called, his arm reaching toward him.
"DO IT!" Lamar bellowed.
Godric's throat opened in a raw, primal cry as the sword came down. The clang of steel rang out. Sharp, deafening, reverberating across the block, through the shattered streets, and into the stunned silence that followed.
****
Godric's breath came hard and uneven, then slowly began to steady. The blackened blade had buried itself in the stone, its tip mere inches from Lamar's skull. The smoldering veins of ember running through it dimmed, fading to ash as the glow crawled upward and died. Color crept back into Godric's skin, as if life had been poured back into his veins, the tar-like mask receding from his face until only his crimson eyes remained.
The block was silent. Lamar's gaze flicked to the sword beside him, unmoving. Rowena, Bran, Winston, Jeanne—Frank and Langston—all stared, their shock holding them still. Only Asriel's lips curved into the faintest smile, as though this was the outcome he'd expected all along. Shoulders lowered. A few chests finally exhaled.
From the depths of the shadowed void, Damocles turned, his form half-swallowed by the blackness. The army of figures behind him unraveled into curling wisps of smoke, vanishing one by one until only silence remained. His stride carried him deeper into the dark, steady, unhurried. And though his face was cast in shadow, at the very edge of his lips a faint smile lingered.
Godric lowered himself, his shadow falling over Lamar, eyes locked on him.
"I never would," he said, the words edged in steel. "That's the difference between us, Burgess. I. Never. Would." Each syllable struck like a blade point pressed to the throat. "You'd reduce a city to cinders for your ambitions. Lay your foundations on the corpses of the innocent. Commit atrocity after atrocity, not out of necessity, not even out of desperation, but because you could. Because you and those who followed you revelled in the cruelty, took pleasure in the ruin you left behind."
His breath trembled, fury searing through the cracks of his restraint. "But no matter how much I want it. How much I crave it. No matter how deep this pain cuts, how much it gnaws at me…" He leaned closer, crimson gaze burning into Lamar's. "I. Never. Would!"
Godric straightened, his chest heaving, each breath torn from him like fire before, little by little, the blaze began to ebb. The fury that had gripped him loosened its hold, leaving only the hard edge of resolve. His fingers uncurled from the sword's hilt, knuckles paling as he released it as he took a measured step back.
"Because I love her," he said. "Even now. Even if she doesn't remember who I am, I do. I remember everything we were. Everything we had. I love her, and I'll keep loving her. Even if the stars come crashing down, the moon crumbles to dust, and the sun sets upon the blackened horizon never to rise again," his gaze locked on Lamar "I will never stop loving her."
"And the man she loves…" He drew in a slow breath. Eyes locked on Lamar. "Would never strike another down in rage. In hate. No matter how much he deserves it and blimey, you do deserve it."
Lamar let out a ragged chuckle, his chest heaving until it broke into a wet, rasping cough, blood spilling down his chin. When he finally raised his head, his one good eye locked onto Godric's with a flicker of cruel amusement.
"Oh, you poor, pitiful, sentimental fool," he rasped, each word dripping with disdain. "Tell me—does your absurdity truly know no bounds?"
His grin widened, exposing bloodied teeth. "You speak of your love as if it's a shield but it's a chain, Gryffindor. One I'd gladly use to drag you into the depths of Hell with me. And when she's nothing more than dust and memory, when your precious love rots away, what will you have left then?" He tilted his head, his smirk sharpening. "Nothing. Just like every other fool who thought they could defy me."
Godric's gaze hardened, the firelight from the still-burning ruins casting sharp shadows across his face. "I'm not the one with nothing, Lamar," he said, each word measured, cutting. "You are."
Lamar's smirk twitched, faltering ever so slightly.
"You had love. Friendship. Family," he said. "You had people who cared for you when all you knew was hate. People who cherished you when you thought yourself worthless. People who forgave you when you spat on them. People who embraced you when you believed yourself alone."
Lamar turned his head, his one good eye finding Rowena, Bran, and Winston standing a short distance away. Rowena's sapphire eyes met his for a fleeting heartbeat before she looked away, the sorrow in her gaze striking deep. Lamar felt his breath hitch, an involuntary pause he could not disguise.
Then, a sound of thrusters roared overhead. All eyes lifted to the night sky as the silhouettes of dozens of airships swept in above Caerleon. In the distance came the grind of heavy engines, the rhythmic thunder of boots hitting the ground in perfect unison, an unstoppable tide pressing into the city.
Langston's face broke into a grin. Frank's followed suit, the older man letting out a short, relieved laugh. The Tower had arrived. The battle was over.
"You've spent your entire life chasing after everything you ever wanted, the entire time blind to the fact that you already had everything you needed," Godric said, turning his back to him. "And you squandered it. Cast it aside, as though it meant nothing." He glanced over his shoulder. "So, tell me, Burgess… was it truly worth it?"
Without another word, Godric walked on, his steps carrying him into the haze of ruin, leaving Lamar to the silence and the wreckage. The old man laid there, his body trembling, his face twisted by pain that even rage could not mask. His breaths grew ragged, each one dragging heavier than the last, until at last it broke from him—a cry torn raw from his chest, long and strangled. It thundered with fury, sagged with sorrow.
The sound pierced the night, echoing off the hollow shells of buildings, rolling through the broken streets, and rippling across the wounded city. To those who heard it, the last scattered remnants of Norsefire, it was more than despair. It was the death knell of their cause, the moment their fearless leader revealed not as the Reaper, but as a man, broken and defeated.
****
Godric had barely taken three steps before something flickered at the edge of his vision. He slowed, then halted. From the hollowed shells of ruined buildings, they began to emerge. Dozens at first, then more. Men, women, and children of every race, age, and creed stepped cautiously into the open, their figures pale specters against the backdrop of fire and ruin.
Their faces were hollow, drawn with soot and streaked with ash. Eyes wide, they moved as if unsure the ground beneath them was real. Some carried the blank stare of those who had seen too much. Others broke down where they stood, sobbing. Some from grief, some from relief. A few clung to one another desperately, embracing as if afraid the moment itself would vanish like smoke.
They moved through the wreckage in silence broken only by the soft crunch of boots against glass, their breaths shallow and hesitant, caught between dread and sorrow. They beheld what remained of their city—the blood pooled in the streets, the bodies scattered like forgotten statues, the homes and halls that once stood proud now reduced to little more than blackened skeletons. It was a memory seared into them forever, one that would not fade with time but linger as a scar upon their people's history, carried in stories whispered to their children's children.
Slowly, as if pulled by an unseen thread, their gazes found him. The lone man who still stood at the heart of it all, bare-chested and unbowed, sword planted deep in the earth. Then, their eyes shifted, settling on the crumpled form of Lamar behind him. The air itself seemed to tighten as whispers began to ripple through the crowd, low at first, then rising with urgency.
"Is that him?" a woman murmured, clutching a soot-streaked child to her chest.
"I know him," said an elven man. His hand lifted, pointing at the figure standing unbroken amidst the devastation. "That's Godric Gryffindor. The Lion of Ignis."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"Did he… did he defeat Burgess?" a therian woman asked, almost unbelieving.
"By the forge," a dwarven man breathed, his eyes wide, the words more prayer than exclamation.
The whispers began to weave into one another, swelling, building. A tide of recognition, awe, and relief that threatened to crest into something greater.
Godric stood frozen, crimson eyes widening as the sound washed over him. He took a step back, the cheers beginning to rise around him, unsure of how to bear the weight of their gazes. The survivors looked upon him not as a man, but as the slayer of the Reaper, the one who had turned back the shadow that sought to consume their city.
And behind him, Lamar Burgess lay broken, bloodied, and silent, the once-feared master of Norsefire, the disgraced former Director of the Clock Tower, reduced to a husk. To those who watched, the sight was undeniable: their tyrant had fallen.
Relief mingled with grief, despair with fragile hope. In the ruins of Caerleon, amid smoke and blood and shattered stone, the people began to believe that they might yet endure. The whispers swelled into words, words into shouts, shouts into a roar that rose above the crackle of fire and the groans of collapsing stone.
"Burgess has fallen! Norsefire is done!"
"He's done it!"
"Gryffindor! Gryffindor!"
The name carried, first from a handful, then from dozens, until the air itself seemed to tremble with it. Men raised their fists, women wept openly, children clung to their parents as relief and awe burst forth in one cathartic wave. The people of Caerleon, broken and battered, cried out in unison.
Tears streamed down soot-streaked faces. Some sank to their knees, bowing their heads, while others shouted until their throats were raw. "The Lion of Ignis!" "The Hero of Caerleon!"
Godric felt his chest tighten as the tide of their voices crashed over him. He took a step back, then another, overwhelmed by the raw, unfiltered emotion that poured from them. He had fought with fury, carried the pain of loss and vengeance, and yet here, in this moment, he was not seen as the scarred warrior who nearly fell to wrath. He was seen as their deliverer. Their savior.
He wanted to recoil from it. To tell them they were wrong—that he wasn't the man they believed him to be. The months spent clutching to the darkness inside him still clawed at his memory. The violence, the carnage he had unleashed on the students of the Congregation. Every broken bone, every scream, every life he had beaten down in a vain attempt to smother the grief, to strangle the pain, to quiet the rage that burned and burned, demanding blood for every wrong ever dealt to him.
He lowered his gaze to the water pooled in a shattered crater of stone. His reflection trembled on the surface, warped and rippling. It wasn't the face of a savior that stared back at him. It was the face of a man scarred and hollowed, a man who had carried too much pain, too much loss. A man who had nearly let himself become the very monster he now stood over.
And yet, when he lifted his eyes again, the people were still there. Dozens of them. Still cheering. Still alive. Their voices weren't raised for the broken shadow of Damocles he had forged himself into. They were for the man who had stood against tyranny and endured, the man who had not let himself fall.
Godric exhaled, his shoulders trembling as though the weight of every cheer pressed against his chest. He could not bring himself to smile. He didn't feel he deserved to, but somewhere deep within, beneath the pain and the fury, a small, fragile warmth took root. However, fleeting, it was there.
For all his flaws, for all his sins, he had given them hope.
And for tonight, that would be enough.
****
"Bloody hell," Winston exhaled, his words trailing into the smoke-choked air. "It's finally over."
Above, the heavens lit as the airships swept their spotlights down, beams cutting across the ruined city. At first, the cheers of the people were faint, muffled beneath the groan of collapsing stone and the hiss of fire. But then it grew—slow, steady, until it surged like a tide. Cries of celebration, of triumph. AEGIS guards, Clan warriors, militia fighters, and the weary citizens of Caerleon raised their voices together.
Through the tears, through the blood and ash, through the horror of what they had endured. They were still standing. Evil had darkened their home, death had reached for them, but they had survived. By courage, by sacrifice, by blood, they remained.
Jeanne's amethyst eyes swept the crowd as it swelled with song and laughter. Some embraced, sobbing into each other's shoulders, others clutched children close. Her gaze found Godric, tall amid the ruin, and for a fleeting moment, warmth curved her lips into a smile. She stepped forward, drawn to him.
Asriel tilted his head back, beyond the ships and their light, past the smoke to the endless stars above. His lips parted in a long, trembling breath. And for the first time in years, he smiled. "Tala… my love… it's done. Be at peace."
Then his body faltered, knees giving way. Bran's green eyes went wide as he lunged, catching him before he struck the stone. They both sank to the ground, Bran's arms bracing him. "Asriel! Hey! Stay with me!"
Rowena dropped to her knees beside them, sapphire eyes wide, the grime on her cheeks breaking under the wet trail of tears.
Asriel gave a rasping chuckle, weak but stubborn. "Come now, Bran… you knew this was coming." A cough tore at him, blackened blood streaking his lips. "I spent years waiting for this moment, telling myself I'd made peace with it. But here I am, and damn me, I don't want to go."
"There… there has to be another way," Rowena whispered.
He turned his head toward her, his hand rising with effort to brush the tears away. His thumb lingered at her cheek. "Oh, Rowena… you truly are a keeper." His gaze shifted to Bran, the shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Take care of her, you four-eyed idiot. You hear me?"
Bran swallowed hard, biting down on the sob clawing at his throat. He nodded, eyes burning, words failing him.
Asriel's hand trembled as he wiped the last of Rowena's tears. "Please, no tears for me," he whispered. "Even before Nemesis, before the Sword… I was a monster. I did terrible things. I told myself it was war, that it washed the blood clean. But it didn't. It never did. I've been the Terror of Death longer than I've been a man."
Bran held him close, Rowena leaned in, and Winston stood in silence, grief hardening his face.
Asriel coughed again, blood spilling down his chin, yet his eyes gleamed faintly, amber flecked with fire. "But Tala… she showed me even monsters can be loved. That there is meaning in this cruel world. I wanted vengeance. When no God answered me, I gave in to the only one who did." He looked to Rowena again. "And I'd do it again. Every sin. Every memory. Every joy. Every sorrow… all of it."
The faint sound of flaking ash drew Bran and Rowena's eyes downward. Asriel's body was graying, his flesh crumbling apart like burnt parchment. Fragments drifted into the night air, carried on the breeze to mingle with the lingering embers that still smoldered in the ruins. The sight hollowed their chests, and yet Asriel's face softened into peace.
"As the soldiers of my homeland once said… I lived. I fought. I laughed. I cried… I loved," he whispered, his lips curving faintly. "And now… I rest." Asriel's fading gaze shifted past Rowena and Bran, settling on Godric in the distance. His lips curled into the faintest trace of a smile. "I only wish that I could've finished it with my own hands."
Bran's chest tightened. His lime-green eyes flicked from Godric back to the man in his arms. "You knew, didn't you. You sly bastard," Bran said with a broken smile. "You knew all along that Gryffindor wouldn't surrender to the sword. That Nemesis wouldn't claim him."
A rasp of breath left Asriel, followed by a weak chuckle. "Not quite. There was always a chance. A moment of weakness, a slip. But yes, from the moment I first met him, I knew. I offered him the chance to join me, and he refused. Despite the rage. Despite the grief. Despite the darkness clawing at his soul… he refused." His lips trembled into a wan grin. "If ever there were a symbol of chivalry, the kind Uther Pendragon once dreamed of, it would be him."
Bran followed his gaze toward Godric. For the first time that night, a small, quiet smile touched his face. "Aye," he murmured. "I can see it."
Asriel's words pulled him back. "Just…" His hand twitched, reaching feebly toward Bran. "…promise me one thing."
Bran swallowed. "Anything, old friend."
"The Sword of Damocles." Even with his body failing, his eyes hardened, commanding. "Take it. Hide it. Lock it away and cast the key into the abyss. Put it where no soul will ever find it. So no one can ever wield it again."
Bran froze, his eyes widening before narrowing with grim resolve. His jaw tightened, and he nodded once. "You have my word."
"And Rowena," he turned to her, their gazes locking. His amber eyes softened. For a fleeting moment he glanced past her, toward Godric standing in the ruin, before returning his focus to her. "Keep an eye on your friend. Guard that bond you share. Keep your friendship alive, no matter the cost. Hold onto it with everything you have." His lips curved faintly. "I have a feeling that he, like you, are destined for greatness."
Rowena's breath trembled as more tears slipped free. She wiped at them quickly, forcing a nod, though her sapphire eyes glistened with grief and resolve alike.
A faint breath left Asriel, and his eyes closed. His body collapsed in silence, breaking apart into ash and dust, the flakes rising toward the stars until the night itself seemed to swallow him whole. The Terror of Death was gone.
The remnants of him fell across Bran's hands. His fingers trembled as he tried to hold them, but they slipped through like smoke. His palms clenched into fists. A single tear fell, then another, until his vision blurred. He tore off his glasses, covering his face as sobs broke loose from deep within him.
"I'm sorry, Asriel… I should've believed you," Bran choked, his shoulders shaking. "I should have—"
Rowena moved close, wrapping her arms around him, pressing his head against her shoulder. He wept into her, raw, unrestrained, the grief shaking through them both.
A step back, Winston closed his eyes, steadying his breath before glancing skyward. His voice was quiet, weary, touched with bitter fondness. "Some things never change," he muttered. "Isn't that right, Wilhelm… old friend?"
****
Godric stepped toward where his sword lay embedded. The silvered steel glistened, its royal blue and golden guard catching the glow with a regal gleam. He drew in a slow, steady breath and reached for it, his fingers curling tight around the hilt. The weapon slid free of the cobblestone with a resonant trill, as though the steel itself exhaled. For a fleeting heartbeat, it felt different in his grasp. No longer weighted by rage, no longer shackled by vengeance. For the first time in what felt like eternity, it was his sword again. His companion. His truth.
A faint smile touched his lips. But it faltered the instant his instincts screamed. His eyes widened as he spun on his heel. Lamar was already there, charging, face twisted in fury, a dagger flashing silver in the firelight. The blade caught the glow for but a blink, poised to pierce his heart. A cry tore from Lamar's throat as he lunged.
And then—steel struck flesh.
The sound was wet, final. Godric froze. Breath locked in his chest. Between him and death stood Jeanne. Her body jolted as the dagger punched clean through her chest. Her face slackened in shock as the breath left her. For a heartbeat, even Lamar faltered, eyes wide at the sight. He staggered back, ripping the blade free. Blood welled from the wound as Jeanne choked, crimson spilling from her lips. The dagger clattered to the stone at Lamar's feet.
"Jeanne!" Godric's cry was raw, desperate. He caught her as her knees gave way, lowering her gently to the broken ground. Her body trembled in his arms, her eyes fluttering shut. "No, no, stay with me. Jeanne, hold on!"
But Lamar only bared his teeth and scoffed. His good eye darted to the edges of the block. Winston was already moving. With a final snarl, Lamar tore a device from his pocket. He slammed it open; a surge of searing light burst outward, blinding, swallowing him whole. And in a blink, he was gone.
Godric shook her. "Jeanne! Jeanne, wake up! Please!" His hands pressed against her wound, as if he could will the life back into her. But her body was limp, her breaths fading.
"Jeanne!" he cried again.
The ruins of the city carried his anguish, his cries echoing off shattered stone and burned walls, piercing into the heavens themselves.