Several bolts of light slammed into the space Lamar had vanished from, splintering stone and showering sparks across the square. Citizens froze where they stood, their cheers and songs dying in their throats, replaced by silence heavy with shock. All eyes turned, first to Godric, then to the motionless form in his arms. Jeanne's pale face was streaked in blood, her chest rising shallow and weak.
Langston and Frank were already moving.
"Coward!" Frank spat, his teeth bared. "Nutless son of a bitch!"
Langston dropped to his knees beside them, his coat sweeping the rubble. He pressed his hand hard over Godric's own, forcing more pressure against the wound. "Keep it steady," he ordered sharply. He tore the glove from his hand with his teeth and tossed it aside, then set two fingers to Jeanne's neck. His brow furrowed. "Her pulse's slowing… this isn't good."
Godric's crimson gaze darted to him, panic threatening to spill into his features.
"Portkey." Winston said as he skidded to a stop, his bow clutched tight in his grip. His jaw tightened. "Of course, I should have known the bastard would keep an exit plan. My old friend's nothing if not bloody thorough."
"By now he could be halfway across Avalon," Frank growled, glancing skyward.
"Not quite," Winston cut in, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on the scorched patch where Lamar had stood. "A Portkey of that size has its limits. He won't be far. If I had to wager, he's just outside the city boundaries. And mark my words, he's already got some form of transport waiting, engines primed and ready to spirit him away."
"Burgess can wait," Langston snapped, scooping Jeanne carefully into his arms as he rose. "Right now, she cannot. We must reach the Hospital Wing, quickly." He jerked his head at Godric. "On your feet, lad. Come along."
Godric rose, his sword still clutched in one hand, the other reaching out to steady Jeanne's body as Langston carried her. He gave a sharp nod, resolve written across his face even through the fear. The captain glanced back to Winston and Frank.
"Go," Frank said, his expression iron. "We'll handle things here." Winston gave a curt nod, eyes narrowing toward the city's edge.
The crowd parted as Godric and Langston sprinted through, silent prayers on every lip, gazes heavy with desperate hope. Rowena sat frozen where she had been, her breath caught in her chest. It had happened too fast. The lunge, the sacrifice, the crimson bloom on Jeanne's chest. Her blood felt like ice, her veins taut with helplessness. She clutched Bran tighter, burying her face into his hair.
Her lips trembled as she whispered into the night. "Hecate… please… protect them. Please, let her be alright."
****
A violent flash tore through the gloom of the warehouse, blasting crates apart in a shockwave of splintered wood and choking dust. Provisions spilled across the cracked floor, canned goods rolling into the shadows, Lacrima crystals scattering in lavender and sapphire light like stars shorn from the heavens.
From the smoke, Lamar stumbled forward, his shoulder slamming against a leaning stack. His body screamed with every movement: burns seared into his flesh, bones splintered, tendons torn, and a ragged wound carved into his face that still throbbed with every heartbeat. He was broken in body, shattered in pride.
But the fire in his eyes did not die. His jaw clenched so tight it threatened to shatter his teeth. He had hurled everything at Caerleon, at Excalibur—every warcaster, every advancement the Atlas Institute had poured into Norsefire. For decades he had led armies, summoned firestorms, bled cities dry. And yet what had undone him? Not hardened veterans, not some ancient champion, but students, militia, citizens who barely knew war. And still, they had prevailed.
Castle Excalibur still stood. Its professors endured. The city lived. They had won, and Lamar Burgess had lost. His armies lay in ruins, his chair toppled, his legacy reduced to ashes. His name, once spoken with fear, would be ground into the dirt. No longer a legacy of terror, but a warning whispered across Avalon. A cautionary tale of what becomes of tyrants, and the price paid for their cruelty.
Rage convulsed through him, consuming what little strength he had left. He slammed his fist into a crate until it splintered, sugar spilling like fine sand across the floor. A guttural scream tore from his throat, raw, ragged, brimming with fury. His breaths came quick and sharp, chest heaving like a beast caged.
It was all their fault. Asriel Valerian. Godric Gryffindor. Those miserable, self-righteous vermin. Their allies, their flocks of loyal dogs, their precious professors. Every blasted one of them. He spat blood, vision swimming red. He had been one step away. One artifact from Blaise's office, one final piece, and victory would have been his. Instead, fate had played its cruelest hand, as though the Gods themselves delighted in his downfall.
No. This was not the end. Not yet. He would not die here, buried under ash and failure. As long as he could still breathe, Lamar Burgess would rise again. Days, weeks, years—it mattered not. He would claw his way back from ruin, even if he had to sell his soul to the Devil himself.
"Just you wait," he rasped, staggering toward the entrance. His eyes burned with hate. "Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Duchannes, the Tower, the Council, the whole bloody lot of you. I'll be back. I always come back. And when I do, I'll tear apart everything you've ever loved." His lips twisted into a grin. "And then I'll rip out your hearts and feast on them."
He shoved a hand against the warehouse door, fingers curling around the cold metal handle. But he didn't pull. His grip stalled mid-motion, every nerve alight. Something was wrong. The air carried a sharp tang, acrid and heavy, burning the back of his throat. Then it hit him. The unmistakable stench of smoke.
Lamar wrenched the door aside, the rusted metal grinding along the track. His eyes went wide. The hidden compound. His last refuge, was already gone.
Flames devoured everything. Vehicles lay twisted and mangled, blackened husks strewn across the dirt. Their parts scattered like bones. Warehouses collapsed in on themselves, tents shriveled in the blaze, and the air reeked of smoke and burning flesh. Bodies littered the ground, some torn apart, some reduced to grotesque ruin, their faces frozen in silent screams of horror. The fire roared up through the pines, clawing its way into the night sky, its smoke curling in thick plumes that blotted the stars.
Lamar stumbled forward, disbelief weighing down every step. His eyes swept over the devastation. His salvation reduced to ash in an instant. In the distance, he could see Caerleon—scarred by fire and ruin, but still standing, defiant. The city gleamed under the cold beams of airship spotlights, while the smaller lights on the ground marked the Tower's forces closing in, hunting down what few scraps of Norsefire remained. His breath came sharp and ragged. There would be no escape. Not this time.
A sudden zip split the air. An arrow struck him in his shoulder, tearing a cry from his throat. He staggered, spun, and another shot into his thigh, dropping him to a knee. Lamar's eyes snapped toward the source.
She stood in the smoke. A young elven girl, ragged and broken. A bow blackened and veined with molten light trembled in her hands, a single arrow strung and glowing like a coal plucked from the heart of a forge. Her hair hung in a blood-matted tangle, her body ruined with wounds that seeped thick, tar-dark blood. Amber eyes burned through the haze, fever-bright and filled with hate. Every step she took was unsteady, her knees threatening to buckle, yet still she came.
"Lamar… Burgess…" Her words were spat through clenched teeth, blood bubbling at her lips. "I… will… have your—" She convulsed, a spray of blood painting the dirt, and the bow dissolved into ash between her fingers.
She collapsed face-first, clawing the ground, dragging herself toward him. When her gaze lifted, it was twisted with rage. Her hand stretched out, fingers curling like talons, reaching for him. "You'll pay… for what you did… to him…"
The phantom arrows dissolved into cinders, their pain lingering in his flesh. Lamar's face darkened, twisting with fury. "You?" he said, disbelieving. "You did this? You worthless little peck—do you have the faintest idea what you've ruined?!"
Her lips curled into a weak, blood-stained smirk. "Consider it… a parting gift… from the Sinclairs."
The name hit him like a hammer. His eyes widened as the realization dawned. "Sinclair—" His laugh edged with venom. "Ah, yes. I remember now. You're the sister of that other peck we strung up… for Gloreth's murder."
Isha spat a thick glob of blood across his boots. He flinched back, not from pain, but disgust.
"That's right," she rasped. "Isha. Remember it. Remember me as the girl who ruined you. If not for me, you'd already be miles away. Safe, scheming, plotting your grand return." Her chest rattled with a cough, then she forced a jagged, bitter laugh through torn lungs. "Go on then, run. We both know you won't make it far. Not like that."
Her smirk returned, darker than before, teeth-streaked black. "If I had one wish, it would've been to see you on the stands. To hear the gavel fall, to watch them take you apart at your execution. Piece by bloody piece. To hear you scream." Her eyes blazed, fury surging one last time as she spat the words. "The way I did… when you hung my brother."
Lamar staggered upright, his knee nearly buckling beneath him, but sheer fury drove him on. "A foolish dream from a foolish little girl," he spat. "You may have torched this wretched pit, but I endure. I prevail."
His sneer deepened, his bloodied lips curling. "Asriel Valerian is dust, and every last one of you Nemesis mongrels have failed. Yet here I stand. I still breathe. I still live. And all of you—you've thrown away your souls at the altar of that twisted God you worship, and for what? Nothing."
A rasping laugh clawed its way from his throat. He turned, limping forward. "Rot in Tartarus, little Sinclair. And when you get there, do give my regards to Valerian."
He barely made it two steps before something clamped tight around his ankle. He jerked back, glaring down. Isha's hand gripped him like iron.
"You're not going anywhere, Burgess," she rasped. "Even if I die here. Especially if I die here, I'm not letting you go. Never."
"Release me!" Lamar roared, lashing out with a savage kick that split her lip. Blood splattered across the dirt, yet her grip held fast. "Release me, damn you! Release me at once!" He kicked again, harder, each strike more frenzied than the last, spittle flying with every snarl.
Isha coughed blood, but her hand only tightened. Lamar's voice rose, desperate and enraged. "Let go, you filthy little whore!" His eyes darted, landing on a steel drum nearby. Atop it, a crowbar gleamed faintly in the firelight. His teeth bared in a grimace as he lunged for it. Fingers curled tight around the cold metal, he raised it high above his head, screaming as he brought it down toward her skull.
The blow never landed.
A searing bolt of magic slammed into his chest, hurling him backwards. The crowbar slipped from his grasp, clattering harmlessly as he hit the ground and rolled through the dirt. Isha's hand was torn from his ankle, her breath hitching as she blinked up through the haze.
Her eyes widened.
A figure stood framed in firelight. He was tall, immaculately dressed in a navy-blue three-piece suit, with a shirt and sapphire tie to match. A white scarf hung loose at his neck as a brown trench coat draped across his shoulders like a cape. A navy fedora shadowed his face, but his eyes cut through the smoke, cold and sharp. In his hand was a wand, its wood darker than any earthly oak, the grain alive with menace. His stare bore down on Lamar with unflinching judgment.
Isha's blood chilled. She knew that face, but the expression he wore now was colder, harder than she remembered.
From the dirt, Lamar coughed up a wet, broken laugh. He staggered halfway upright, dragging in a ragged breath. "So…" he wheezed, his gaze narrowing at the sight before him. "The last of the blasted crows finally graces us with his presence. I did wonder where you were hiding."
His lips pulled into a dark smile, blood dripping from his teeth. "Roland."
****
"That's Chief Auror Ravenclaw to you," Roland's words cut through the smoke. "And you, Direc—" He stopped, correcting himself with a thin exhale. "My mistake. Lamar Augustine Burgess. You stand accused of genocide, war crimes, abuse of power, corruption on a scale most could scarcely imagine, and above all, treason against the Council… and against Avalon itself." His wand never wavered. "For that, I am placing you under arrest. I would waste time reading you your rights, but given your former chair, I know better."
Lamar staggered upright, one hand clutching his mangled shoulder. "Do you honestly think that's wise, Roland? You being the one to drag me in? Conflict of interest, and all that?" He managed a smirk through the blood on his teeth. "Considering our history, the courts might see it rather differently."
"And already, you've chosen to discard your right to silence," Roland replied, stepping closer, his wand angled like judgment itself. "Keep your forked tongue where it belongs, Lamar. Given the weight of what you've done, I assure you, no court in Avalon will waste time on technicalities."
Lamar's eyes narrowed, fury smoldering beneath the cracks of his ruined face.
"You and I both know the Tower better than most," Roland pressed on, his words sharp as steel. "You longer than I. And there is one rule every member of the Three Bodies knows never to break: never drag the Council into the dirt." His gaze hardened. "You should know that more than anyone. You fed my father to the pyre to appease them."
Roland's gaze hardened as it lingered on the ruin of Lamar's face, the torn flesh exposing strands of muscle and sinew, teeth visible through the mangled wound. "Fitting," he said. "You've always been a two-faced bastard. Now the outside matches what's been rotting inside you all these years."
Lamar scoffed, ignoring the jibe, his bloodied lip curling. "Enlighten me, boy, how in blazes did you know I'd be here?"
"I didn't," Roland replied coolly. "I followed the fire and smoke, nothing more. I expected to find a rabble of Norsefire curs scurrying about, desperate for some pitiful escape. Instead, I stumble upon the greatest coward of them all."
His eyes narrowed. "Shouldn't surprise me, though. You've always fancied yourself the smartest person in the room. I still remember those poker nights with father. Your smug grin, a card tucked neatly up your sleeve, as if no one could see straight through your tricks. Same old Lamar. Always cheating, always running."
"Clever," Lamar sneered as he flicked a hand with mocking flourish. "So, you've finally come to wrest the Tower from your dear uncle's rotting grip, have you? To scrub away the filth, excise the rot, set the world to rights?" His smirk deepened into something cruel. "Save it from the monster who's infested it all these years?"
"Tower?" Roland scoffed, the word spat out as though it soured his tongue. "The Tower is gone. It died the very day those doddering fools on the Council crowned you Director." His gaze hardened. "Funny, Wilhelm used to say that most of what's foul in this world comes from stupid old men making stupid decisions. Never has he been more right."
Roland shook his head slowly. "No, Lamar. I'm not here for the Tower. I'm here for you. And though you are guilty of more atrocities than parchment could ever record, to me you stand guilty of the worst crime of all—what you did to my family."
Lamar's smirk twisted, half fury, half grim amusement. "Fair enough," he said. "You never did stomach me, boy. That much was plain. You and that whore you lay with. Perhaps that's why I despised you as much as I did your father. Too clever for your own good."
Roland stepped past Isha, pausing only long enough for his eyes to meet hers. For a fleeting instant, his gaze softened. She understood without a word. His eyes then locked back on Lamar, his expression freezing once more into iron.
"How observant," Roland said coldly. "Then again, I hardly bothered to hide it. We all saw your true face long before anyone else. I just refused to bow to it." His chest rose with a slow breath. "I love my father, and more than anything, I loved my mother. And both of them, for reasons I will never forgive you."
His eyes darkened like storm clouds. "You repaid their love for you with contempt and treachery. You disappointed my father, and worst of all, you broke my mother's heart." His jaw tightened until his teeth ground. "For years, all I ever wanted was to beat you to death with my bare hands, and drink your blood from the heel of my boot."
Lamar threw his head back and laughed, the sound wet and broken, echoing against the flames. "What's this? A tantrum? Still hurling playground threats like some sulking schoolboy? I thought better of you, Roland. Seems I gave you too much credit. You're nothing but—"
"Ruptura."
The tip of Roland's wand flared crimson. Lamar's left arm bulged grotesquely, skin blistering before rupturing outward in a spray of blood and torn muscle. The old man howled, clutching at the mangled limb as crimson soaked the ground beneath him.
"I wasn't finished," Roland said, eyes narrowed.
The flatness in his tone made Isha's breath hitch. There was no rage, no fire. Only something void, hollow, as if humanity itself had been scraped out of him. For a heartbeat, she thought she was staring at a creature dragged straight from the abyss, not a man.
Roland's words carried on. "For years, you infested my family. A parasite gnawing at all that was decent. For my mother's sake, I tolerated you. But every second you stood in our home, every smile you forced, every lie you told, it corroded the restraint I held."
"But what burned me the most," Roland continued, "was how close you slithered to Bran. To Rowena."
His wand flicked again, steady as a blade. A sudden surge of crimson light pulsed from its tip—Lamar's right thigh bulged grotesquely before it ruptured, bone splintering through muscle in a spray of blood. The scream that tore from him was raw and ragged, echoing through the burning compound as his body buckled. He collapsed, clutching at the mangled ruin of his leg, blood pouring between his fingers.
"I knew it would come to this!" Roland snarled, his composure finally cracking. "I knew that you'd try to hurt them. And you did. By the Devil in Hell, you did! You tried to kill Bran. You tried to kill Rowena!"
Roland's wand snapped upward, and Lamar's body was ripped from the ground, flung into the air and held aloft as if nailed upon an invisible cross. His arms were yanked wide, veins bulging black beneath his skin, spreading like creeping poison. Blood streamed down his body, spattering the scorched earth below. His muscles twisted grotesquely, every tendon pulled taut, his insides knotting and turning as if about to burst within him. The torment wracked his frame until a strangled, guttural cry tore from his throat—half scream, half gasp, raw suffering forced into sound.
His wand hand trembled, but his eyes blazed. "You dared to reach for my family. My beloved children. My daughter. My son!" he snarled. "And for that—I'll tear you apart, piece by piece, as I should have done years ago!"
Lamar hacked up blood, spattering it into the dirt. His eyes, glassy with pain yet burning with venom, fixed on Roland with a twisted hunger. Slowly, his lips pulled into a red-stained grin.
"There he is," he rasped. Another cough shook him, blood spilling past his teeth, yet his smile only widened. "The shadow that hung over Edelwich. The Slaughterer of the Sands. The Flesher of Velen." He leaned forward, his words dripping with mockery. "The man who could never be moved… Roland the Merciless."
His laughter rattled harshly in his chest, broken and cruel. "I remember when they used to shriek at the very sight of you. The bravest warriors reduced to wetting themselves at the carnage you left in your wake."
His lips twisted into a bitter sneer. "I would have named you my heir. Given you my legacy. But at the height of your reign, you turned your back on it all. Traded blood and fear for paperwork and shadows, letting your name wither." He shook his head slowly. "Typical Ravenclaw, hiding in the dark when you should have seized the sun. Just like your father. Just like Wilhelm Reinhardt."
Roland lifted a hand to his fedora, slipping it from his head. His sapphire eyes locked with Lamar's ruined face, until at last he lowered his wand. The old tyrant crumpled forward, hitting the dirt with a heavy thud. Roland drew in a slow breath, steadying the storm that raged inside him.
"And you, Lamar, in your boundless greed and ambition, rose higher than any man had a right to," Roland said. "But like Icarus, you soared too close, and now the fall is yours and yours alone." His gaze darkened. "My father and Wilhelm never craved recognition. Nor did I. Our names were never bought with the blood of innocents. Only with the ruin of wretches and tyrants. Men like you."
Roland stepped back with measured calm. "You will not die here. Not tonight. Not by my hand." He turned from him before Lamar could spit his last venom. "And do not mistake this for mercy. What the Council has planned will be far worse than anything I could grant you."
He stepped to Isha's side, lowering himself to one knee. Gently, he eased her onto her back, cradling her as if she were porcelain in his arms. His fury was gone, replaced with grief. "Isha… my dear. What have you done?"
She coughed, blood on her lips, yet her gaze never wavered. "What I had to. I'm… so sorry."
"No," Roland shook his head, clutching her hand. "You've nothing to apologize for. If anything, I should bear the blame. This happened because we allowed evil to grow, and too many of us put our faith in the people underserving of it," he said. "I wish it could have been different. For you. For your brother."
Her lips curled faintly. "You're here. That's all that matters." Her eyes softened. "I never had the chance to thank you—for what you did for Arno."
Roland's fingers brushed through her hair, tender, almost fatherly.
"May I ask something of you?" Isha whispered. "When this is all over, will you… take me home? To Arno?"
The faint hiss of ash drew his eyes. Her skin, her clothes, had begun to grey, turning to cinders that peeled away into the night. Roland's chest tightened.
"Of course," he said. "I only pray I could tell you you'd find peace, that you'd see him again." His breath trembled. "All I ever wanted was to save you."
Her trembling hand rose, brushing his cheek with a final, fragile touch. "You did. You gave a dying girl kindness when all she knew was cruelty. Hope, when all she knew was darkness. You gave me courage." She smiled faintly, the last of her strength fading. "And so I go without fear… and without regret."
Roland bowed his head, his hand closing over hers as it crumbled to ash in his palm. The last thing he saw was her smile, carried skyward on the smoke. He stared into the black above, his words low, heavy with oath and sorrow.
The low hum of the approaching airship swelled into a thunderous roar, its engines churning the night sky as the downwash whipped the flames into a frenzied blaze. Dust and ash spiraled through the compound, stinging his eyes as the inferno bent and snapped in the gale. Then, with a sudden glare, a searing spotlight cut through the smoke, flooding the ruins in stark white light.
"Rest now, Isha Sinclair. I swear it. You, your brother, all of you. The Tower will never be the same again."
****
Back at Excalibur Academy, the Hospital Wing had descended into chaos. Bedlam stretched through every corridor. Students, Tower guards, militiamen, even frightened citizens filled the space, turning the once-sterile ward into a battlefield of its own. Beds rattled across crowded hallways, wheels shrieking as they were pushed aside. The tiled floors were streaked with crimson, buckets sloshing with diluted blood as staff desperately tried to keep up with the tide. The air reeked of iron, smoke, and antiseptic.
Everywhere, people lay broken. Some sat slumped against the walls, bandages pressed to fresh wounds. Others lay groaning on stretchers, bloodied, bruised, or unconscious. The cries of the wounded mingled with the barked orders of healers and professors.
Doctor Adani moved through the storm like a commander in the trenches. Bandaged, bruised, her coat and saree streaked in blood, she never slowed. She directed nurses and doctors with sharp precision, mobilizing them like soldiers. Anton hurried between patients waiting in triage, while Professors Eridan, Lotho, and Agatha worked shoulder to shoulder, casting basic healing charms to keep the dying alive.
At a table, Rasputin, Lagduf, and Kyar tore through crates of supplies, harvesting ingredients for potions. Ryan and Serfence bent over stretchers with steady hands, stitching wounds and setting bones with the kind of grim calm that came only from battlefield experience.
Even the staff were not spared—Professor Workner lay in a bed near the corner, his injuries bound but serious enough to keep him grounded. And behind a locked office door, a scarlet glow pulsed rhythmically. Hohenheim's presence was unmistakable, the flash of alchemical fire leaking from the cracks beneath.
The doors suddenly burst open with a thunderous crash. Langston strode in, Godric at his side, Jeanne limp in the Captain's arms. The din faltered, heads turning. Adani froze mid-sentence, her eyes catching the sight of the girl—ashen, her chest barely rising, blood soaking through the fabric of her dress.
"Help!" Langston's voice cracked as he rushed toward her. "Please—she's been stabbed!"
Adani's face drained of color. "Gods…" She spun on her nurses. "Get me a bed—prep surgery now!"
A cot came skidding forward. Jeanne was lowered gently onto it, nurses descending at once, hands working fast as they wheeled her deeper into the wing. Godric lurched to follow, desperation in every line of his face, but Langston's hand clamped on his shoulder, halting him. Godric whirled, anger flashing, until he met the Captain's eyes. Langston shook his head, firm yet steady. The boy's jaw clenched, his shoulders sinking as he exhaled in frustration, helplessness etched into every breath.
Jeanne was swept away in a flurry of footsteps, Adani trailing close behind, barking orders that echoed down the hall. Then the ward swallowed the sound, leaving Godric and Langston in the wake of silence.
Godric trembled. "This… this is my fault," he growled through clenched teeth. "I could have—I should have—"
"Lad," Langston interrupted, turning him to face him fully, both hands gripping his shoulders. His words carried the weight of a seasoned soldier, roughened yet steady. "It's natural to think that way. To wish you could have done more. But listen to me, it isn't your fault."
Godric's breath shook, but his eyes locked onto Langston's.
"She did what you would have done for her," Langston said softly. "She protected you. And there is no shame in that."
Godric's gaze sank to the floor. His grip tightening around the hilt of his sword at his side.
"This," Langston began, "This is the truth of war. You've had your first taste of it, and there will be more, far more, before your time is done. And if there's one lesson you must learn, it's this: no matter how fiercely we fight, no matter how tightly we cling to courage or strength, not everyone makes it home."
His eyes softened, though his jaw remained hard. "I have buried more brothers than I dare count. Men I fought beside. Laughed with, shared drink and song with. Men with families, dreams, futures. And too many times, I've stood before their loved ones, with nothing to offer them but silence, and watched their world fall apart."
He closed his eyes briefly, as though the memory pressed down on him even now. "The screams, the wails, the tears. You never forget them. They live with you. They carve themselves into your bones." His hand clenched into a fist, then pressed it gently against Godric's chest. "That's why you must stand strong when others cannot. When grief and sorrow hollow out the hearts around you, you hold firm. Not just because you must, but because you choose to."
Langston's mouth curved into a faint smile. "After all, you're Godric Gryffindor. The Lion of Ignis, and your flames will never die. Wasn't that your own vow?"
Godric's eyes lifted, startled, the words striking him deeper than he expected.
"Have faith," Langston said firmly. "In yourself, and in your friends. She'll fight her way back. You'll see."
Godric chuckled softly after a pause. "You know, you sound exactly like my Uncle Gareth," he said. "Thank you, Captain Langston. I needed that."
Langston's lips curved into a smile. "Then I very much look forward to someday meeting this uncle of yours. I daresay we'd find no shortage of things to discuss, over ale and roast, no less." His gaze swept the bustling ward before returning to Godric. "Now get some rest, lad. You've earned it. As for me, I've business with the Tower, assuming they've already darkened the castle doors."
With that, he turned and strode for the entrance, disappearing through the swinging doors.
Godric's eyes lingered on the man until he was gone. A voice drew him back.
"Gryffindor."
He turned, and his eyes went wide. "By Charlemagne's throne, Anton!" he exclaimed. "W-what happened to you?"
The sight nearly stole his breath. Anton's once impeccable attire had been reduced to tatters: his vest ripped, his shirt torn and stained, his elegant moustache frayed and uneven, his dark hair sticking in every possible direction. Bandages wrapped most of his limbs, blotched here and there with fresh crimson.
Anton gave a light shrug, as though such ruin were merely an inconvenience. "A bit of a tussle, lad, nothing more. I'll live." He straightened faintly, reclaiming some of his usual composure. "In any case, you'd best take a walk down that hallway. Fourth door on the right." His lips curved into a weary but knowing smile. "I suspect there are some people inside who are rather desperate to see you."
As Anton gave a wink and sauntered off, Godric arched a brow but wasted no time. He darted down the crowded hallway, weaving past patients, nurses, and militia alike until he reached the fourth door. His hand tightened on the handle before pushing it open.
His breath caught.
Helga sat upright on a hospital bed, clad in a gown and swathed head to toe in bandages. Plasters dotted her face, and her cheeks bulged with cookies crammed into her mouth, making her look more like a chipmunk than a patient. At her side, also in a gown, leaning with a sling-bound arm against the wall, was Salazar—his emerald eyes widening as they met Godric's.
"Godric!" Helga exclaimed, swallowing hurriedly before leaping from her bed. She barreled into him. arms locked around his ribs with the force of a bear trap. Godric wheezed, his spine protesting with a sharp pop. "You're okay!"
"By the Gods, Helga," he managed, smiling nervously as she released him. He bent backward, rubbing his ribs. "What in the world happened to you?" His gaze flicked to Salazar. "To both of you?"
"Long story!" Helga chirped, her tone still bright. "See, there was this hulking gorilla in Norsefire—an absolute brute. So I beat him like batter before a bake and sent him flying halfway across Avalon!"
"That's rather the abridged version," Salazar interjected, shaking his head with a faint smirk. He stepped forward and clasped Godric in a careful one-armed embrace. "It's good to see you, dear friend. For a time I wondered if we'd be finding you still breathing or laying cold in the morgue."
Godric smirked. "You'd think by now ole' Salazar Slytherin would know better. It'll take far more than a few blades and wands in the hands of knaves and blackguards to see me off." He gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Truth be told, I was far more worried about you."
"Then I suppose we are even." Salazar's lips curved into a wry smile before he turned, reaching for something propped against the wall. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it toward Godric. The royal blue scabbard lined with gold glinted as Godric caught it.
"Found it on the way back to the castle," Salazar said dryly. "You really ought to keep better track of your belongings, Gryffindor."
Godric chuckled as he slid his blade back into its scabbard. "I'll make sure to hang onto it tighter next time." His gaze narrowed a little as he looked Salazar over. "That must've been one hell of a fight. I've seen you banged up before, back during our duel with the Calishans, but even Rance never left you looking this torn up."
Salazar inhaled, his expression momentarily hardening. "Let us just say the disgraced Sheriff of Caerleon draws breath no more," he said, low and cold. "A savage end for a savage man."
"Blimey…" Godric muttered, rubbing at his jaw. "I'm almost afraid to ask."
"Worry yourself not, my friend," Salazar said evenly, his tone clipped yet calm. "What's done is done." His eyes narrowed as they swept over Godric. "Although, speaking of worse for wear, you should have seen Helga when they first wheeled her in. She looked as though half a fortress had collapsed upon her, and within hours she was sitting up, bright-eyed and chattering. I daresay the look on Doctor Adani's face was worth the ordeal alone."
"Like I told Sal here," Helga chimed in cheerfully, "Jötnars can take a beating. Spells might not touch us, but when we get knocked about, we mend faster than most. Doesn't mean it's painless, mind you." She winced as she rolled her shoulder. "Bacchus' butterbeer, I'm going to be as stiff as a board for weeks."
"That brings me neatly to my next point," Salazar remarked, giving Godric a deliberate once-over. "Helga and I look as though we've been through a cauldron explosion and back. Rather like her ill-fated Bulgeye Potion experiment."
"Oi!" Helga snapped, puffing her cheeks. "We swore never to bring that up again!"
Salazar ignored her with a faint smirk. "And yet, you stand before us without so much as a scratch. Tell me truthfully, were we even fighting in the same battle?"
Godric hesitated, his hand drifting to the back of his neck. He drew in a long breath before letting it out, his expression dimming. "Yeah… that. You're not going to believe it. And if I'm honest, I'm not even sure I believe it happened myself."
"Well," Helga broke in, "we'll all have plenty of time to trade stories once Bastion returns with Elio. They went off to raid the pantry for more snacks."
Godric raised an eyebrow. "Bastion?"
"A friend we made," Salazar said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "An officer from the Tower. One of the rare few worth the name. He pulled me back from death's door, and for that, I owe him more than I care to admit. When you meet him, Godric, I've no doubt the two of you will take to one another splendidly."
The hurried rhythm of footsteps echoed down the hall before Rowena appeared in the doorway. Her sapphire eyes swept over the room, wide with relief at the sight of her friends, until they fell on Helga. Her expression crumpled, and tears welled before she could stop them. In an instant she was at Helga's side, throwing her arms around her, sobbing against her shoulder.
"Row?" Helga blinked, startled, before easing into the embrace. She hugged her back gently, her amber eyes soft. "It's good to see you too."
"You had me worried sick." Rowena pulled back just enough to wipe at her face. "No one had seen you before the battle, and when Norsefire struck, I thought…" Her breath hitched. "I thought something had happened to you."
Helga shook her head, her lips curling into a small, reassuring smile. "I'm sorry, Row. I never meant to scare you." She gave a little shrug, almost sheepish. "I just… had some things I needed to sort out. But don't worry." Her amber eyes softened as she reached for Rowena's hand. "I'm back, and I'm me again."
Rowena's tears eased, a faint smile breaking through as she pressed her forehead against Helga's. "I'm glad. I always said you looked better with a smile."
But then her joy faltered. She stiffened, suddenly struck by a terrible thought, and turned toward Godric, her eyes wide with panic. "Jeanne… Godric, where's Jeanne?"
Godric froze, his chest tightening as he looked away. The silence lingered just a moment too long. Salazar caught it at once. His sharp eyes narrowed, the faintest lift of an eyebrow betraying that he understood more than Godric wished to admit.
"Jeanne?" Helga tilted her head, her concern sharpening. "What about Jeanne? What happened? Is she alright?"
Before Godric could answer, Helena appeared at the doorway, breathless, as though she had sprinted the length of the castle. Her wide brown eyes darted frantically about the room. "Jeanne, where's Jeanne?" she cried. "I heard…"
All eyes shifted to Godric. He drew in a long breath, his chest tight. "She was… she…" His words faltered. "Lamar attacked me, and Jeanne—" he broke off, gaze lowering to the floor. "She's in surgery now. Doctor Adani is with her personally."
Helga's amber eyes widened, her lower lip trembling. Even Salazar, usually composed, stood stiff as stone at the news.
"By the stars…" Helena's hand flew to her mouth, her knees nearly giving way as tears brimmed. "I never should have taken my eyes off her."
Salazar moved toward her at once, his expression softening. He drew her into his side, steadying her as she clutched at his robes and buried her face against his chest. "Easy, Helena. There is nothing you could have done," he said firmly.
He looked to each of them in turn. "None of us could have. Jeanne is strong, in body and in will. We could sooner stop the tides than keep her from doing what she did." He gave a small shrug. "For now, all we can do is pray, and hold faith."
Godric nodded slowly. "Salazar's right. For most of us, this was our first taste of war. We walked through Hell, stared down demons, and held the line with nothing but grit and courage." His gaze hardened, carrying the weight of it into each of them.
"We gave everything we had. For Excalibur, for Caerleon, for Avalon. Through blood and bone, against impossible odds, we stood. We endured. And in the end… we won." His mouth softened into the faintest smile. "And I'm glad, that even after all of it, we're still here. Together."
The weight in the room eased, if only slightly. Helga, Rowena, Salazar, and Helena each let out the breath they had been holding, their lips curling into faint, weary smiles. For a moment, amidst the sorrow, relief found them.
Then Helga's sharp gaze flicked between Salazar and Helena, who still lingered close together. She raised a brow, smirking as she pointed. "Speaking of together… are you two…?"
Both froze, color rushing to their faces as they sprang apart.
Salazar cleared his throat, his composure fraying. "I—I've not the faintest idea what you mean, Hufflepuff. It was merely instinct. I was… comforting her. As friends do."
"Yes, of course!" Helena stammered quickly, hands flying up. "Nothing at all unusual happening here!"
Rowena tilted her head, unconvinced. Helga only smirked knowingly, eyes half-lidded in quiet amusement. Godric, however, looked between them all with growing bafflement, utterly lost.
"Heya!"
The voice at the door made them all turn. Bastion stood there, his arms laden with brown paper bags, a broad grin on his face. "I come bearing gifts—peanut butter cookies!" He shook the bags for emphasis.
"And macarons too!" Elio chirped beside him, beaming.
Just then, Professor Ryan's head poked around the doorframe, his nose twitching as though he'd caught the scent on the wind. "Wait a second," he said, eyes wide with wonder. "Are those peanut butter cookies I smell? Please tell me I can have one."
Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward him, brows raised in unison.
Before Ryan could take another step, a hand shot out from behind him, Professor Serfence's. He clamped down on Ryan's ear and yanked him back with all the casual cruelty of long practice. Ryan stumbled, hopping on one foot, arms flailing like a fish on dry land.
"Nooo! Not my sweet peanut butter cookies!" Ryan wailed, trying in vain to reach out as Serfence dragged him away. "Cookies! Don't leave me!"