The midday sun pressed down upon Caerleon with a relentless intensity, the kind of heat that simmered just shy of unbearable. The air itself seemed to waver, rising in visible waves from stone and street alike, and those unfortunate enough to linger outdoors did so at the risk of being slowly cooked where they stood. Most sought refuge beneath awnings or behind thick walls, while the summer holidays funneled travelers into the city despite the conditions.
Some passed through only briefly, stopping at the crossroads on their way to more exotic destinations. Others arrived out of a quieter, more morbid curiosity, drawn by whispers of the Siege and its aftermath. Whatever their reasons, commerce had returned with surprising vigor. The battered city hummed once more with trade and movement, relief and victory mingling into something that tasted faintly bitter, no matter how much the people of Caerleon tried to convince themselves otherwise.
Salazar drew in a slow breath and let it out, his emerald eyes following the steady current of people moving along the sidewalk. He leaned back against the rough concrete wall, its sandy, scraped surface rasping faintly against the Velcro panels of his outfit. The emerald scarf at his neck stirred gently in the passing breeze, a muted flash of color against the black. He folded his arms across his chest, posture settling into stillness.
He watched wide-eyed visitors pause before glass displays heavy with gold-encrusted jewelry, heard the occasional gasp at a quaint arrangement of rare books, or saw curiosity spark at the sight of polished wands that all but coaxed coin from eager hands.
Some who passed by spared him a cursory glance, only to falter and look again once the emblem on his arm caught their eye. Confusion flickered across a few faces, while others showed open awe as recognition set in. A handful of girls lingered a second too long, eyes widening, cheeks warming with color.
Salazar offered nothing more than a small, polite smile in return, composed and practiced. Inside, however, he could not help the quiet groan that followed. Nearby, the hiss and slosh of brewing coffee filled the air, its smoky bitterness entwining with the sharp sweetness of glazed lemon cake. Travelers lingered over brochures, voices overlapping as they debated where to go next, what wonders still awaited them.
Yet for all the city's renewed pulse, Salazar's attention was drawn elsewhere.
Red brick walls, alabaster facades, and stretches of bare gray stone were plastered with posters, faces and names unfamiliar to him layered one atop another. Banners and flags hung between buildings, catching what little breeze the heat allowed. Ever since Mayor Ramonda's announcement that she would not be seeking reelection, the city had been alive with speculation. Conversations buzzed with talk of potential successors, of promises made and futures imagined. Lines were being drawn, quiet alliances forming beneath the surface.
Ordinarily, the politics of a world not his own would have meant little to him. Governments rose and fell like the tide, their leaders no more permanent than shifting points of view. But this time was different.
Caerleon was called the Crossroad of Avalon for more reasons than mere geography. Time and again, it had proven itself a crucible, a place where single moments ignited consequences that reached far beyond its walls, setting precedents for the twelve kingdoms and, more often than not, all of Avalon itself. The Siege, the duel with Volg and the Calishans, each had sent shockwaves rippling outward, stirring resolve in some and seeding doubt in others, from nobles reclining in silk-draped halls with wine at hand to the plebeians bent over the soil, hands raw and aching. Salazar had no illusions that this coming election would be any different. Whatever choice Caerleon made now would echo outward, shaping the land in ways few yet understood.
His gaze then settled on one poster in particular.
A young man stared back at him from the page, dark complexion set beneath steady eyes that seemed to look down upon the street, upon the city itself, with unsettling confidence. Salazar's expression tightened, interest sharpening into something colder as he studied the face in silence.
"Jacob Ramonda," Rowena said, her voice drawing Salazar's attention as she stepped to his side, her sapphire gaze following the direction of his own. "Mayor Ramonda's grandson. I met him once during a gathering at the Tower. At the time, he served as King Uther's ambassador to the Akkadian territories."
She folded her gloved hands neatly behind her back, her sapphire scarf settling against her side. "Intelligent, composed, well-spoken, and impeccably groomed. I can't say I'm surprised his name is being floated as her successor."
"Nepotism at its finest, wouldn't you agree?" Salazar replied with a faint smirk that earned him a sharp glare from Rowena. He cleared his throat lightly. "Like it or not, placing one's own kin in the line of succession for an elected office is always poor optics. People will inevitably say you're more interested in building a dynasty than serving the public."
A quiet chuckle followed. "Not entirely unlike the Ravenclaws and the Tower," he added. "As much as I appreciate the irony."
"Two very different circumstances, Salazar," Rowena replied evenly. "And yes, I'm well aware of the implications." Her gaze drifted back toward the street. "Still, Caerleon has not stood on such a threshold in many years. Everything they once accepted as normal, the comforting belief that life would not suddenly turn against them, has been shattered."
She paused. Her expression thoughtful. "Now they are faced with choice, one weighed down by uncertainty and the lingering fear of what might happen, or what might come, should they choose poorly."
Salazar let his gaze drift from Ramonda's likeness to the other two faces printed across different posters. One depicted a man in his late forties, deep chestnut hair threaded with gray, a neatly trimmed boxed beard framing stern steel-gray eyes that carried little warmth. The other showed a far older man, perhaps in his late sixties, with a full beard and long silver hair. His power-blue eyes held a surprising gentleness, almost welcoming in contrast to his age.
"Do you happen to know who the other two are?" Salazar asked, tilting his head slightly. "And more importantly, what manner of men they might be."
Rowena studied the posters, her gaze narrowing thoughtfully. "Not much," she admitted. "The younger one is Lord Matthias Greymark."
Salazar arched an eyebrow. "Greymark?" He turned to her. "As in Lucian and Gabriel Greymark?"
"The very same," Rowena confirmed with a nod. "Their father. A Highborn, and like most of his kind, he comes packaged with the usual prejudices and self-importance." She let out a sharp breath. "Laxus mentioned once that he has rather deep ties to the Slavers' Union."
Salazar's expression darkened at once. "That is… deeply unsettling."
"Tell me about it," Rowena replied. Her attention shifted to the final poster. "And that one is Kagetane Tengen." She paused, studying the face. "As for who he really is or what he stands for, I don't know much. Only that he's from Azia, specifically the nation of Nihon." She glanced back at Salazar. "Much like Genji Shimada."
Her gaze lifted slightly. "That said, there will likely be plenty more candidates throwing their hats into the ring, but I doubt it will change much. If the speculation holds any weight, these three are already positioned as the frontrunners."
Salazar released a sharp breath. "Based on what little I understand of Avalon's interpretation of democracy," he said, "each of these men will now be afforded the opportunity to persuade the masses that they are the optimal choice for Caerleon."
His jaw tightened. "A preposterous system, if you ask me. Governance would be far more efficient, and considerably less of a circus, if the gullible and the imbecilic were barred from influencing leadership at all. Perhaps then individuals like Burgess and his ilk would never have found their way into public office."
"There you go again, Salazar," Rowena said with a small shrug. "It's not that I don't understand where you're coming from. But silencing voices is often the first step toward the very outcome you're railing against." She tapped her fingers lightly against her side. "The elite, the nobility, those born into privilege can't possibly understand what it's like for people who spend their lives toiling in the dirt."
Her expression sharpened. "More often than not, they make decisions that serve themselves and their own, rather than the people as a whole."
"Perhaps," Salazar said, "but I have seen more than my fair share of capable leaders. Visionaries. Men and women with genuine conviction, with hearts set on building a better world, undone not by failure of merit, but by sheer charisma and empty promises."
His gaze narrowed. "And who elevates such people? The ignorant. The fearful. The hateful. Those who could not tell a book from a block of wood buried in the mud." A faint edge crept into his voice. "Charlatans thrive on deceiving them, feeding on their anxieties while promising salvation."
He shook his head slowly. "Those same charlatans then make their weight in gold on the backs of the plebeians, only to abandon them in the very pit they claimed they would rescue them from." His tone hardened. "And the worst of it is that everyone else is crushed in between."
A quiet pause followed. "It is profoundly unjust that those who understand what is at stake are so often outnumbered by those who do not."
Rowena fell silent for a moment. "On that, Salazar, we agree." Her sapphire eyes lifted once more to the faces staring out from the posters. "Let us hope that whoever ends up in that chair when all of this is over is someone Caerleon truly deserves."
Salazar let out a low, dark chuckle. "That, my dear Rowena," he replied, "rests entirely upon its people." His gaze tightened, just slightly. "Godric may have found it in himself to forgive their apathy, but they are a long way from any sort of absolution in my eyes."
Rowena turned to him then, her expression softening as she studied her friend in silence.
"Speaking of our mutual friend," Salazar said, his tone smooth and measured as his gaze shifted to Rowena, "have you heard any word from the two of them since we parted ways in Stornoway? I confess, a day without news has a way of inviting a certain… unease."
Rowena inclined her head. "Only a brief message on the Vine," she replied. "Jeanne said they made contact with her… relative."
Salazar stilled, just slightly. "And?"
She exhaled, one shoulder lifting as her sapphire eyes grew somber. "It's true. All of it," she said. "Jeanne is, in fact, the long-lost heir of the D'Arc family. I can only imagine the shock."
"An understatement of the century," Salazar remarked with a faint smirk, a quiet chuckle following. "One does not often discover that the ground beneath their feet has been quietly replaced overnight. I suspect I would be rather beside myself, were I in her position."
"Believe me, she is," Rowena said. "That said, she now has a choice. To renounce the claim… or to accept it." Her expression tightened. "They intend to remain in Carcassonne for a time, while she decides."
Salazar's amusement faded, replaced by something more sober. "I cannot fault her for that," he said. "Nobility is a blessing to some, yet a curse to others. A name such as that carries expectations that weigh heavily, whether one is lauded for virtue or condemned for perceived failings." His lips thinned slightly. "Two sides of a most familiar, and rather unforgiving, coin."
Rowena let out a soft, knowing chuckle. "I suppose it is."
The sharp ring of a brass bell above the dark oaken doorframe cut through their conversation, drawing their attention just as Helga stepped out of the bakery beside them, a brown paper bag tucked in her arms as she held it against her chest. Steam curled from its opening as she smiled, eyes closing while she inhaled deeply, savoring the heavy scent of sugar and glaze. She licked her lips and skipped toward them, her amber scarf trailing cheerfully behind her.
"Ooo, I can never get enough of these donuts," Helga said with a grin. "I swear, if I could have them for three meals a day, I wouldn't complain."
"That sounds positively nauseating," Salazar replied with a grimace. "I can already feel my arteries clogging at the mere thought. That is, assuming, that the Sugar Sickness doesn't claim me first."
"Helga, you really need to cut down on your sugar intake," Rowena said, rubbing her temple. "At this rate, you're going to give Doctor Adani an aneurysm."
"Bah, sickness, schmickness," Helga waved her gloved hand dismissively as she reached into the bag and produced a sugar-glazed donut. "After all the work the Congregation piled on us, I'd say we've earned a treat, wouldn't you?"
She was just about to take a bite when the street detonated.
A thunderous explosion tore through the air, violent enough to make the ground buck beneath their feet. Salazar, Rowena, and Helga all flinched as a fireball erupted from a storefront at the far end of the street. Stone and brick blasted outward in a deafening roar, sand and dust billowing as wood and glass splintered into lethal shards that scythed across the cobblestones. People screamed and dropped where they stood, hands over heads, bodies slamming into the pavement. Tables lurched and overturned, coffee arced through the air before ceramic shattered against the sidewalk.
Salazar staggered. Jaw clenched as the ringing in his ears began to fade. "What in bloody blazes was that?"
"I don't know, but—" Rowena cut off sharply.
Her eyes went wide as a truck burst into view from around the corner. It was monstrous, its frame crudely plated in rusted steel, its armored bumper smashing straight through the side of another storefront and blowing out stone and timber in its wake. The engine screamed as it barreled down the street at full speed, straight toward the crowd.
Helga's gaze snapped to the people frozen in its path.
She didn't hesitate.
With a sharp breath, she dropped the paper bag, donuts spilling forgotten onto the stones, and surged forward. Helga slammed her fists together, and her bracelets ignited with a brilliant yellow light. Mechanical grinding filled the air as metal shifted and unfolded, plates locking into place as heavy gauntlets formed up to her elbows.
She planted her feet.
The truck never slowed.
It hit her at full force.
The impact sounded like a building collapsing.
Instead of Helga giving way, it was the truck that crumpled. Metal shrieked and twisted as the entire front end caved inward, the engine folding like tin. Glass exploded outward as the vehicle lifted off the ground for a brief, impossible heartbeat.
Helga cried out as her boots skidded back a foot, stone cracking beneath the force.
A collective scream tore through the street as two men were launched through the shattered windshield, bodies tumbling end over end before slamming into the cobblestones and rolling to a stop.
The truck crashed back down in a heap of mangled steel, steam hissing from the ruptured engine.
Helga pulled her hands free from the ruined grille, her gauntleted handprints crushed deep into the metal. She turned slowly toward the onlookers, their faces pale, eyes wide with shock.
"Don't worry," she said brightly. "Everything's fine."
She flashed them a thumbs-up, grinning as though she hadn't just stopped a charging vehicle with her bare hands.
Rowena and Salazar rushed forward. For a brief moment, Salazar's attention flicked to the two men groaning on the cobblestones, bodies twisted where they had landed. His eyes caught the emblem painted on their arms, and whatever composure he had left hardened instantly.
"Who are they?" Rowena asked, her gaze snapping to the same symbol, crudely painted in green along the side of the truck. A bear, jaws bared, chains clutched in its paws and snapped apart at the center. "That… doesn't look like Norsefire."
Salazar shook his head. "Libertas."
Rowena's eyes widened.
"Huh?" Helga stepped closer, scratching the side of her head. "Liber—what now?"
"Libertas," Rowena repeated. "Bran and my father have spoken of them before. They're anti-slavery freedom fighters. They've been working to liberate slaves for years." She hesitated. "It began peacefully, until the Guild retaliated with force. Libertas answered in kind. Now they've been branded a terrorist organization, not unlike Norsefire."
Her jaw tightened. "And with the Tower crippled…"
Another explosion thundered somewhere down the street, followed by a second, closer this time. The sound rippled through the air, drawing every eye.
"Then this is far from over," Salazar said, his gaze sharpening as he turned to them. "Split up. Helga, evacuate the street and protect the civilians."
"On it," Helga shot back, a determined grin flashing across her face as she was already in motion. "All right, everyone, with me!"
The people hesitated for only a heartbeat, still dazed and shaken, but the confidence in her voice cut through the shock. One by one, then in a rush, they rallied, turning and moving after her, drawn along by the certainty she carried as though it were something solid they could lean on. Salazar then met Rowena's eyes. She slipped her wand from her coat, and in a beat of wings and a flash of light, an obsidian bow formed in her hands. They exchanged a single nod before breaking away in opposite directions.
Helga turned back toward the crowd, then paused, her eyes dropping to the pavement where her donuts lay scattered and ruined. She looked back at the groaning men and scowled.
"You dumb jerks owe me a new bag of donuts," she snapped.
****
Screams ripped through the streets as civilians fled in blind panic, scattering in every direction. Flames crawled up storefronts, licking hungrily at wood and stone, the blaze roaring as glass shattered and beams splintered apart. Dozens clad in Libertas' colors clashed openly with Authority agents, turning the avenue into a battlefield. Blades rang against one another, sparks bursting where steel met steel, while streaks of ethereal light tore through the air as spells were hurled back and forth in violent flashes.
Cries of combat echoed from every side, and for the people of Caerleon, it was a cruel return to a nightmare they had only just begun to escape. The Siege rose again in memory, raw and unforgiving. Fear seized them. Some ran until their lungs burned, others froze where they stood, while many barricaded themselves inside their homes, curling into corners as the ghosts of the past threatened to tear apart whatever fragile peace they had managed to reclaim.
Gorras' wand snapped through sharp arcs, spells firing one after another as he drove back attackers. Sweat streamed down the side of his face, his breaths coming fast and shallow, eyes wide with panic.
"Depulso!" he shouted, blasting a swordsman rushing him head-on. The force hurled the man backward, his body slamming into the side of a car hard enough to cave the steel inward.
"Stupefy!" Gorras cried again, flinging the spell at another assailant who leapt toward him mid-air, axe raised high. The man froze instantly, momentum dying as he crashed lifelessly to the ground.
Then the hairs on the back of Gorras' neck prickled.
He turned just in time to see another elf closing in, sword already thrust forward, its tip aimed straight for his chest. His blood ran cold.
But death never came.
The blade rang out as it struck steel instead.
A massive greatsword slammed into place between them, its broad side catching the thrust with a shower of sparks. Bastion stepped in fully, teeth clenched as he absorbed the impact. The elf's eyes widened in shock before Bastion shoved forward, forcing him off balance.
The counter came fast.
Bastion swung the blunt edge of his blade up and across, the blow crashing into the elf's chin with brutal force. The impact lifted him clean off his feet. Teeth scattered through the air as he hit the asphalt hard on his back, unmoving.
Gorras could only stare, frozen in place as recognition hit him. "R-Reinhardt?"
For a heartbeat, the familiar urge surged up, some sharp remark, some bitter barb born of old resentment, but it died before it ever reached his tongue. Not when he took in Bastion fully.
Bastion straightened and slid his greatsword back into its holster across his body. As he turned, Gorras noticed what was missing. That insufferable, cocky swagger he remembered all too well. It was gone. In its place sat something colder, heavier, a steel-edged calm that felt profoundly wrong on him. Lieutenant's stripes marked his sleeves now, earned and worn. His mismatched gold and silver eyes narrowed with focus. His expression set hard as stone.
He spared Gorras a single glance before moving past him, one hand drifting toward the short blade at his side.
"One time, Gorras," he muttered without slowing. "One time."
Then, sharper, grounded. "Now pick your damned jaw off the floor. We've got people to save."
Gorras blinked, caught off balance, eyes still wide. A short scoff escaped him before he shook his head and moved, falling in behind Bastion as the chaos swallowed them once more.
****
The fighting dragged on as Libertas pressed their assault against the Authority, now with agents of the Tower moving alongside them. It was an alliance born of necessity, not trust, and a shared sense of nausea churned through every one of them. Old grudges, fresh wounds, and years of bloodshed sat uneasily beneath the surface, but for Caerleon, for a city still scarred by violence wrought by zealots cut from the same cloth, they forced themselves to stand together.
No one felt that revulsion more keenly than Bastion.
His short sword rang out as it met steel, sparks flaring as he moved through three Libertas fighters at once. He flowed between them with grim efficiency, neither reckless nor showy, alternating seamlessly between defense and attack. A blade swept toward him and he twisted aside, his own edge snapping up to deflect it before he surged forward.
He hooked an arm around one man's neck, locking him tight, and as another rushed in, Bastion drove a boot into his midsection, sending him staggering back. The third came in hard. Bastion parried, stepped inside the swing, and lunged, burying his blade into the man's chest.
The fighter choked, a wet, broken sound escaping him as blood spilled from his mouth and ran down his chin, darkening the green of his uniform. His sword slipped from numb fingers and clattered to the street. Bastion wrenched his blade free, blood splashing across the stones, then turned without hesitation.
With a single, efficient motion, he slit the throat of the man trapped in his hold, letting the body fall away. His attention snapped to the last attacker, now on the ground, wand raised with trembling hands, sickly green light gathering at its tip.
"Confringo," Bastion said coldly.
Fire erupted from the edge of his blade. The blast struck true, and the man screamed as flames took him, his wand tumbling from his grasp as he writhed. Bastion did not look away, nor did he linger. The battle demanded more of him, and he moved on without pause, steel already rising to meet the next threat.
A body suddenly hurtled across Bastion's field of view, slamming into the side of a parked car with a bone-jarring crash as steel crumpled inward. Bastion turned sharply, but what caught his eye was not the impact, it was the weapon. A spear of glimmering obsidian steel, veined with an emerald sheen, stood buried clean through the man's chest.
The victim choked once, blood bubbling at his lips before spilling down his chin, then went still. The spear tore itself free with a sharp pull, splitting smoothly into two as it hovered midair, before snapping back into the side of its owner.
Bastion turned.
A young man stood a short distance away, draped head to toe in black, an emerald scarf settling against his chest as faint tribal serpent markings were etched into his attire. The emblem of the Marauders was displayed proudly on his arms.
"Officer," Salazar greeted, inclining his head with a grin.
"Slytherin," Bastion replied evenly.
For a brief moment, a charged stillness passed between them. Then both smiles broke through, sharp and familiar, as they clasped forearms in greeting.
"Heard you've been busy," Bastion said, tilting his head slightly. "Word is the Marauders are in high demand these days."
"Given that we are the Clan of the Hero of Caerleon," Salazar replied lightly, "one would expect nothing less." His emerald gaze lingered on Bastion, concern flickering beneath the levity. "Are you… alright?"
Bastion raised an eyebrow, lowering his hand. "Yeah. Never better." A pause. "Why?"
Salazar hesitated, then shook his head. "Nothing. Forget I said anything."
His attention snapped back to the battlefield.
"For now—"
He swung his arm outward. The spear launched forward in a blur, silencing the battle cry of a charging Libertas fighter as the blade punched straight through his heart. The man's eyes widened in shock before Salazar drew his arm back, the weapon retreating as the body collapsed lifelessly to the street.
Salazar turned back, calm and composed. "Let us dispose of the vermin, shall we?"
Bastion's gaze hardened as he faced the fray once more. "Took the words right out of my mouth."
A sound then cut clean through the chaos of battle, sharp enough to draw both Salazar's and Bastion's attention at once.
The roar of an engine.
The shriek of tires scraping against stone.
Something large. Something heavy.
Metal groaned and screamed as they turned, just in time to see a monstrous truck, the same brutal make Helga had stopped earlier, tearing down the road at full speed. Panic erupted. Authority agents dove aside as the barricaded grille plowed straight into the line of parked cars being used as roadblocks. The vehicles were blasted apart, flipping and bursting into fireballs of flame and twisted steel as they were hurled out of the way.
Bastion's hand snapped to the hilt of his greatsword as Salazar shot him a look, emerald eyes wide with alarm. The truck closed the distance in seconds. Bastion thumbed the ignition on his weapon, the engine roaring to life as flames burst from its vents, but before he could draw, Salazar slammed into him.
The shove sent Bastion sprawling as Salazar leapt back at the same instant, the truck roaring past them with inches to spare. A scream tore through the air. One Authority agent had reacted too late. The truck struck him head-on, his body vanishing beneath the grille in a wet, final impact. Red smeared across the metal as the vehicle bounced, the massive wheels rolling over him without slowing.
The truck thundered on, disappearing down the street.
****
Inside the truck, the two men were still laughing, slapping palms as the driver buried his foot into the accelerator.
"We did it!" he shouted over the roar of the engine. "Told you we'd give them the slip!"
The passenger grinned, pounding his fist against the rear wall of the cab. "Damn right we did. You hear that?" He leaned forward. Eyes alight. "From here it's a straight shot to the gates. We're home free."
A muffled cheer answered them from the back.
Then the passenger looked up.
His grin vanished.
A lone figure stepped into the middle of the road ahead.
The man's long gray coat stirred in the wind as he straightened, unruly black hair framing a face set in calm focus. Dark eyes sharpened as he lowered his stance, the sword in his hand settling at his side while his other hovered just above the hilt. The air around him began to change. Sand lifted from the ground, spiraling at his feet, curling upward as though drawn by an unseen force. Pressure built, thick and suffocating. Ethereal sapphire smoke bled from his form, glowing faintly as it rose, as if the world itself were being pulled toward him.
Slowly, he closed his eyes.
The driver felt his blood turn to ice. He shot the passenger a look. "I-Is that…?"
The man swallowed hard. "Gun it," he muttered. Then, louder, panicked, "Run him down!"
The engine screamed as the truck surged forward, tearing down the street at breakneck speed. The distance between them vanished in seconds.
Then the man drew.
Steel left the scabbard in a blinding flash. The sound that followed was not merely metal cutting air, but something deeper, as though the world itself had been split open.
Time stopped.
Ethereal blue lines carved across reality, the street warping as if seen through fractured glass. The truck hung suspended mid-charge, frozen in a moment of inevitable failure. The man straightened, twirling the blade once before sliding it back into its sheath with slow, deliberate precision. The hilt met the guard with a quiet, final click.
The world resumed.
The truck disintegrated.
It came apart in a cascading mosaic, edges glowing red and molten, sliced so cleanly it looked almost as though shaped by fire. The cab split first. The driver and passenger's eyes were wide, mouths open in soundless horror as their bodies separated into pieces, momentum carrying them forward even as they fell apart. The rear of the truck tore itself in half, screaming steel skidding past the man on both sides by mere inches.
Screams erupted from the shattered back as the remains slammed into the road, grinding and collapsing until everything finally stilled.
The man stood where he was, unmoved.
He drew a deep breath.
Then he exhaled.
****
Bastion scrambled to his feet, fury blazing across his features as he stepped up to Salazar. "What the hell was that?!"
Salazar snapped back without missing a beat. "Have you gone positively stark raving mad?"
"I had it!" Bastion shouted, jabbing a finger toward the street. "I had it right where I wanted it!"
"The only thing you had, officer, was a death wish," Salazar snarled. "And if I hadn't—"
He stopped.
It was subtle. So fast it barely registered, like a hairline fracture running through reality itself. For the briefest fraction of a second, the world seemed to suspend. Bastion's face, still twisted with raw fury, froze mid-breath. Salazar's emerald gaze snapped toward the truck, and then it happened.
The vehicle came apart.
Not exploded. Not crushed. It separated, cleanly, impossibly, as though an unseen blade had passed through it. Metal parted into precise segments, edges glowing faintly as the pieces fell away from one another. The sound followed a heartbeat later, steel screaming as it collapsed across the road.
"What in the—" Salazar felt the blood drain from his face as his eyes locked onto the figure standing amid the wreckage.
He turned to Bastion, and saw the shock written there first.
Not at the destruction.
At the man.
Bastion's lips trembled, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. His mismatched eyes were wide, fixed on the lone figure as though the sight defied every truth he thought he knew. The name slipped from him, barely more than a whisper, yet heavy enough to cut through the chaos.
"H-Hector?"
****
Armored vehicles surged into the streets, their engines growling low and heavy. Trucks plated in blackened steel rolled to a halt, reinforced grilles bristling at the front, the emblem of the Authority stamped clearly along their sides. Doors burst open and dozens upon dozens of agents spilled out, boots striking stone in practiced unison.
The fighting died instantly.
Members of Libertas cried out in alarm, breaking ranks and scattering as Authority forces flooded the avenue, giving relentless chase. In the lull, the same figure stepped forward through the smoke and wreckage. His posture was rigid, commanding, his gaze level and unyielding as it swept across the destruction littering the street. A thick mustache twitched with faint irritation, the only sign of emotion he allowed himself.
Then, his eyes settled on an elven man approaching.
Gorras came to a halt before him, unease flickering behind his composure. "Commander Khan," he greeted.
Hector raised an eyebrow, head tilting ever so slightly.
Gorras stiffened at once and snapped into a salute. "My apologies, sir. I wasn't aware you would be arriving today. Had I known—"
"I did not travel all the way from the Crown City to indulge your pleasantries, Lieutenant Brunestud," Hector cut in. Gorras recoiled despite himself. "I have received reports that for months that you have allowed Libertas insurgents to operate unchecked, uncontained." His gaze swept the street, taking in the wreckage with quiet disdain. "At first, I assumed it was merely a lapse in duty."
He stepped closer.
"It appears I vastly underestimated the scale of your dereliction."
Gorras swallowed hard as Hector leaned in just enough for the words to bite. "You know who I am, Lieutenant. More importantly, you know precisely what it is I do." His tone never rose. "I am the one summoned by the Administration when matters go irretrievably wrong."
Hector gestured faintly toward the devastation behind him. "And judging by what stands before me, they most certainly have."
"Commander, I assure you, we had everything under—" Gorras began, but Hector's gaze snapped to him, sharp enough to silence him mid-word.
"For your sake," Hector said evenly, "I suggest you meditate on the phrase silent as the grave for the remainder of the day." His presence loomed. "Rest assured, your shortcomings, and your… incompetence, will be thoroughly addressed in my review."
He turned his head, surveying the street once more.
Screams rang out as agents dragged young girls of various races from the wreckage. Obsidian-black collars gleamed around their necks, unmistakable marks of bondage, as they were thrown to the ground and restrained.
"For now, Lieutenant, you will clean up the mess you have made." Hector stepped past Gorras without another glance. "And I suggest you do so while you still retain the sanctioned authority to act."
Gorras' eyes followed him, jaw tight, before he nodded stiffly. "Yes, sir."
****
Salazar let out a low whistle as his spears drifted back to him, obedient and precise, before sliding into their sheath across his back. His gaze swept over the aftermath.
Vehicles burned where they lay, flames licking at twisted frames. Storefronts smoldered, their insides spilled across the asphalt in heaps of mangled steel, shattered glass, and splintered wood. Black smoke climbed into the sky in thick, choking columns. Civilians gathered in ragged clusters, their voices cutting through the haze as they passed buckets hand to hand, flinging water at the fires with desperate resolve. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, its rising pitch heralding the arrival of the brigade.
His eyes found the people.
Families clung to one another, tears streaking soot-stained faces. Some sobbed openly at what they had lost. Others held spouses and children tight, trembling with the fragile relief of survival. Salazar felt a weight settle in his chest. He knew what this city had endured. He had seen the cruelty of Norsefire, the scars they carved into Caerleon's streets and souls alike. For a fleeting time, it had seemed as though the city was healing, stitching itself back together inch by painful inch.
Now that fragile sense of safety lay in ruins.
His gaze shifted to the lifeless bodies marked with Libertas' emblem, sprawled across the road. His jaw tightened.
Then he heard the screams.
Salazar's attention snapped toward the figures being dragged away in chains.
"No, no, please!" cried a therian girl, black cat ears flattened against her skull as tears streamed down her face. "Let me go!"
"Help me!" another voice shrieked, raw with terror. A human girl struggled against the agents hauling her forward. "I won't go back! Please, don't send me back to the mills!" She screamed a name through her sobs. "Denora! Denora!"
Salazar's breath caught as recognition hit him like ice down his spine.
He knew them.
They were the slaves Bastion had aided all those moons ago, temporarily ripped from their bondage and given a glimpse of something like hope. And now they were being taken into Authority custody, dragged toward a fate Salazar knew all too well. Incarceration. Reeducation. Returned, broken, to the very masters who had owned them. Bastion's words echoed in his mind, and something inside Salazar snapped taut.
And against his very nature, the mask of stoic indifference he had spent a lifetime forging began to fracture. An unfamiliar heat bloomed in his chest, sharp and searing, spreading with a violence that left him momentarily breathless. His teeth ground together as emerald eyes flickered with threads of amber, the spears at his back humming in response, rattling softly against one another, eager and restless, as though they sensed the storm building within him.
Images rose unbidden in his mind. Excalibur's slaves crushed beneath Creedy's tyrannical hand, the suffering by students before Godric's crusade tore through the Congregation, and most of all, the quiet memory of Godric and Raine, seated together in the pavilion at the heart of the lake, love and fragile joy filling the space between them. A brother who had fought the world itself, and a slave who had once believed she would never know what it meant to be cherished.
In that moment, he understood just how easy it would have been. How effortless.
He could cut them down where they stood, drown the street in their blood before any of them had the chance to react. Or worse, bend them to his will, command blade and wand alike, force them to turn on one another and tear themselves apart. The whisper slid through his thoughts, smooth and insidious, coiling close like a serpent at his ear, offering power without resistance, justice without consequence.
He did not know when the feeling had taken root, only that it was there now, raw and consuming.
He loathed them. The self-appointed arbiters who wrapped cruelty in the language of law and dared to call it order. The men who claimed dominion over the broken, the desperate, the voiceless, and slept soundly for it. In that moment, Salazar wanted them dead.
Every last one of them.
Salazar's gaze then settled on the man in the gray coat. Boots crunched against asphalt as the figure advanced, long sword held with practiced ease at his side. Commander, Gorras had called him. A man vested with authority. Power. One of the architects presiding over this wretched machinery. The spear at Salazar's back hummed louder, vibrating within its sheath as the intrusive thoughts pressed harder, sharper.
Then a voice cut clean through the noise.
"Hector!"
Salazar's head whipped toward Bastion, and so did the man.
Hector froze, and for a heartbeat the world itself seemed to stall, his eyes widening as his expression slackened into open disbelief. Bastion stepped toward him, sliding his sword back into its sheath, the certainty in his posture giving way to something far more uncertain.
"W-what are you doing here?" Bastion asked, a smile breaking through despite himself, caught somewhere between shock and genuine relief. His mismatched eyes searched Hector's face, then drifted downward, settling on the Authority badge pinned to his chest.
The smile faltered. "And you're—"
Whatever cold severity Hector had been wearing fractured in an instant. "Bastion?" he said, turning fully to face him. "Is that… is that really you?" He took a step closer, disbelief bleeding into warmth. "B-bloody hell… look at you." A smile spread across his face, unguarded, almost fond. "A Guardian." He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Of course. I don't know why I ever expected anything different."
Bastion shook his head, lifting his hands as if trying to steady himself. "Forget that," he said quietly. "What happened to you?" His jaw tightened as old questions surfaced. "Where have you been?" His gaze dropped once more, lingering on the badge. "And why are you—"
Hector looked down for a moment, then raised his head, drawing in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. "A great deal, I'm afraid, old friend." A faint, weary smile touched his lips as he stepped closer, resting a hand on Bastion's shoulder. "I'll be in Caerleon for the foreseeable future. Come find me at the Authority headquarters. We'll catch up over a pint or two." His eyes searched Bastion's face. "I imagine we have much to reminiscence."
"You!"
The panicked cry cut through them both.
Bastion and Hector turned as one. The therian girl twisted against her restraints, eyes locked on Bastion, terror and hope tangled together as an agent dragged her forward. "You were the Guardian who helped us before," she cried. "Please, help us now!"
Bastion's expression fractured, something raw and anguished flashing across his face before he could rein it in, and then he felt Hector's grip tighten on his shoulder, firm enough to anchor him, heavy enough to carry intent.
"I am reminded of a report filed by Lieutenant Gorras some months ago," Hector said, carrying the weight of recollection. "It detailed a rather… notable incident involving a Guardian, one whose obstruction resulted not only in the escape of several slaves, but also in a number of Authority agents being put out of commission."
He drew a sharp breath, the sound controlled but edged. "Gorras neglected to include a name, whether out of pride or shame is of little consequence to me. But seeing you here, now?" He paused, letting the implication settle. "I am not surprised in the least that it was you, Bastion."
His gaze held, steady and unyielding. "And I have no doubt that the same temptation gnaws at you even now. So, I implore you, old friend—just this once… don't."
His gaze shifted, if only for a fleeting heartbeat, toward the girl being dragged away, and in that instant Bastion heard it. The faint, unmistakable clink of metal. His eyes dropped to Hector's sword just as the man's thumb pressed against the guard, easing the blade free by a single inch, a thin line of silver catching the light. Slowly, Bastion lifted his gaze again, meeting Hector's eyes, and what he found there went far beyond rank or duty, heavy with shared memory, regret, and a warning that needed no further words.
"I need not remind you where the Tower now stands, nor what it represents," Hector continued evenly. "In the eyes of the people, and in the eyes of all Avalon." He paused, letting that truth settle. "Forget jurisdiction. Your obstruction may once have been celebrated, even praised, but you may find that this is no longer the case."
His gaze hardened as it settled fully on Bastion. "And you know this, don't you?"
Bastion's jaw tightened. The answer lodged painfully in his throat.
"Walk away," Hector said at last, almost pleading beneath the authority. "For me. For old time's sake."
With that, he stepped past him, his thumb guiding the blade smoothly back into its sheath as he went, the soft scrape of steel sounding far louder than it should have, leaving the weight of the moment hanging in the air long after he had moved on.
Bastion remained where he was, frozen in place, eyes wide as the color drained from his face. From a short distance away, Salazar watched in silence, sensing the tension coiled tightly between them, the history left unspoken yet palpable. Whatever bound Hector and Bastion was old, complicated, and far from resolved, and its shadow lingered heavily over the ruined street.
"Please!" the girl cried again, echoed by the other beside her.
Bastion held their gaze for a long, agonizing moment. Then he turned away.
Salazar's eyes widened in disbelief as Bastion walked off, his back rigid, his shoulders drawn tight. The girls' faces crumpled as hope finally slipped away, tears spilling freely as they were dragged from the street.
Back into the shadows.
Back into the hell they had fought so desperately to escape.