Bastion let his fork slip from his fingers, the faint clink of steel against porcelain cutting through the low hum of panic beginning to ripple across the restaurant. His jaw tightened, brows knitting as his mismatched eyes hardened, fixed on the group of young men fanning out across the room in blood-red shirts and dragon insignia, wands raised, blades glinting under the amber lights. One of them stepped forward and hurled a rough sack across the counter. The woman behind it barely caught it before a wand was shoved inches from her face, its wooden grain stark against her pale skin.
"Fill it," the man with the red bandanna around his face barked. "Every last coin you've got." He flicked his wand impatiently. "Vámonos!"
The woman shrieked and ducked behind the counter, scrambling for the safe as the rest of the gang began circling the patrons, stripping rings from trembling fingers and yanking satchels from shoulders. Bastion didn't need long to place them. The red, the dragon marks, the swagger. Red Dragons. The same breed of gutter trash he'd hauled off in irons barely a day or two ago. He might have hoped the sight of their friends being dragged through the streets would have served as a warning, but clearly consequences meant nothing to men like these.
His gaze shifted to the nearest of them, an elven thug by the look of his pointed ears, before flicking back to Raúl. "They haven't clocked us yet," Bastion murmured, one hand drifting toward the hilt of the short sword at his waist. "Good. Alright, kid, here's the plan—"
He stopped.
Something was wrong.
Raúl had gone rigid across him, his posture locked, shoulders tense as if a wire had been pulled tight through his spine. Bastion caught the change in his eyes first, the dark irises constricted to pinpricks, wide and glassy with a fury that hadn't been there moments before. His breathing was shallow, fast, bordering on ragged. Bastion's gaze dropped to his hands, fingers curled into claws against the table, nails biting into the wood hard enough to score pale grooves across its surface.
It clicked all at once.
The story. The Red Dragons. His parents.
"Kid," Bastion hissed under his breath, leaning closer. "Listen to me. I know exactly what's running through your head right now, but this isn't the time. This isn't the place."
Raúl didn't even blink.
"Raúl," Bastion pressed, sharper now, fear threading through his irritation. "Kid!"
Glass exploded across the polished floor, shards skittering outward as the sharp tang of citrus burst into the air, a toppled drink spreading in a bright, sticky arc. A chair shrieked as it scraped backward, and an older man was sent crashing to the tiles, his cry cut short as one of the Red Dragons lifted a gold ring into the amber glow of the hanging lamps, turning it slowly between his fingers as though admiring a trinket freshly won.
"Please," the old man pleaded, pushing himself up on shaking arms, his voice cracking as he reached for it. "Give that back. It's all I have left of my wife."
He never reached far enough.
A boot slammed into his face, the impact wet and brutal, and blood sprayed across the floor as his body twisted and fell again. The Dragon scoffed, lowering his foot.
"Shut it, old man," he snapped. "This belongs to us now. If you're looking for someone to blame, blame yourself." His lip curled as his gaze raked over him. "Wrinkled little pendejos like you ought to stay indoors, tucked away where you belong, instead of pretending the world still gives a damn about you."
He laughed as he turned away, already dismissing the man as beneath notice, but a trembling hand suddenly clamped around his ankle. The restaurant went deathly still, as though the world itself had drawn in a breath.
"Give it back," the old man rasped, dragging himself forward on his belly, lifting his head just enough for blood to spill freely from his split lip and streak across the tiles. His fingers tightened around the Dragon's leg, knuckles white with desperation and defiance. "Give it back."
The other Dragons merely watched, eyes half-lidded, mouths tugging into crooked smiles, the creases beneath their eyes deepening with anticipation. They knew exactly how this ended. The young man clicked his tongue and tore his leg free, turning sharply as he raised his wand. Its tip flared, the glow bleeding into a sickly, venomous green that warped the light around his grin. Bastion's blood went cold. His hand wrapped tight around the hilt of his blade, silver whispering free as instinct took over.
"Well," the man said lightly, almost amused, the smile twisting into something ugly, "I've already buried three prunes this week. What's one more?" He tilted his head, the wand humming louder as its glow intensified, casting a poisonous sheen across the old man's wide eyes. "Maybe with an audience, the message'll finally sink in."
He took a step closer. "This is Dragon turf. If we want it, we take it. And there isn't a damned thing you—"
The scrape of a chair cut through the moment, sharp and jarring, followed by the whisper of leather shifting and a low mechanical hum that rose like a breath drawn deep into iron lungs. Then came the thunderous crack, a sound so violent it seemed to tear the air apart rather than pass through it.
Red erupted.
The force of the blast painted the walls in a brutal arc, crimson slamming outward and splattering across the remaining Dragons, soaking into their shirts and bandanas as if the color itself had weight. Chunks of flesh and shattered bone struck stone and wood alike, sliding down the walls in wet, nauseating streaks, pooling at the baseboards as viscera thudded to the floor. For a heartbeat, no one moved. They stood frozen where they were, eyes blown wide, bodies locked in place by disbelief.
The young man looked down.
Where his torso should have been whole, there was only a gaping ruin. Half his body had been torn away, his arm and thigh mangled beyond recognition, blood and shredded flesh spilling freely onto the tiles. His mouth opened, a wet, choking sound escaping as crimson poured past his lips. He swayed once, knees buckling beneath him, then dropped heavily to the floor, face striking stone as his body shuddered and went still.
Silence rushed in after it, thick and suffocating. The golden band slipped from his hand and skittered across the spreading pool of red, spinning once on its edge before losing momentum. It struck the soaked floorboard with a dull tap and came to rest there.
Then, slowly, inevitably, every head in the restaurant turned toward the source of the shot.
Raúl stood upright, one arm fully extended, his stance rigid. In his hand was the weapon drawn from beneath his coat, sleek and narrow, matte black carbon steel etched with fine channels that pulsed with a cold, neon-blue glow. A ring of unfamiliar runes rotated slowly around the elongated barrel, as if the weapon itself were thinking. Along its length, engraved with quiet authority, was a name that hummed through the room like a warning given too late.
Darkhorn Trident.
Bastion could only stare.
A strange, creeping numbness ran down his spine, and even the familiar warmth of the hilt clenched in his hand felt distant, unreal. His mind betrayed him, dragging him back to the Academy, to the rookies he'd graduated alongside. Fresh faces. Bright eyes. All of them dumb enough to believe they were invincible. He remembered how quickly that belief shattered the first time blood hit the ground. How bravado collapsed into terror. How hands shook, fingers slipped on grips slick with sweat as a robber sobbed and begged, only to spring the trap that ended someone's life. He'd seen it too many times. Fear. Hesitation. The fatal pause between thought and action.
But not Raúl.
There was no tremor in his grip. No flicker of doubt.
And the look in his eyes wasn't duty or panic or even cold resolve. It was something far more unsettling. Raw. Focused. Personal. A hard, consuming malice that had nothing to do with the badge and everything to do with old ghosts clawing their way to the surface. In that instant, Bastion felt his gut twist, a sick certainty settling in his bones.
There was more to his new partner than Elias had let on, and it was not something Bastion was ready to confront, nor something he was prepared to accept.
"Martin!" the elf shouted, his gaze snapping to Raúl. "You son of a—"
The wand came up.
Raúl was faster.
Without even turning his head, he drew his second weapon, leveled it, and pulled the trigger. Three concentric rings of runes flared along the barrel in rapid succession before a blast of searing light detonated from the muzzle. The elf's upper body burst apart as if it had ruptured from within, a violent bloom of scarlet and shattered bone exploding outward. Blood and fragments sprayed across walls, tables, and screaming patrons alike, coating them in a grotesque tableau.
What remained of the elf collapsed in a boneless heap, the lower half crumpling to the floor amid mangled flesh. Screams tore through the restaurant. People shrieked and scrambled, some staring down at themselves in horrified disbelief, as though their bodies had been turned into a madman's canvas.
Raúl turned his head, eyes briefly settling on what was left of the elf, then lifted his gaze to the remaining Dragons.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
The look in his eyes promised only one thing.
Retribution.
In the seconds that followed, Bastion remained frozen where he sat, his thoughts hollowed into silence, his limbs slow to answer his will. For the first time in his life, the fiery impulse that defined a Reinhardt failed him entirely, snuffed out and absent, leaving only a cold, stunned stillness in its wake.
"Aw, shit—kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"
Panic ripped through the remaining Dragons, their voices shrill and breaking as wands snapped up and blades came free in a frenzy of motion. Screams erupted from the patrons as bodies hit the floor, chairs screeching and tables overturning in a desperate bid for cover.
Raúl moved.
His boots struck the tile with blistering speed, each step precise, predatory. His thumbs tapped the cross-shaped studs on the hammers of his weapons in practiced unison. A cold, synthetic voice cut cleanly through the chaos.
"Lacerāre."
The first Dragon loosed a spell, a vicious green flash tearing through the air. Raúl twisted aside, the magic skimming past him close enough to scorch fabric. He raised his weapon mid-motion and pulled the trigger. Runes flared. Light tore forward.
The man screamed as the blast sheared through his torso on a diagonal, splitting flesh and cloth alike. Blood sprayed in a wide arc as he folded, collapsing before his scream could finish.
Raúl didn't slow.
He vaulted forward, weapons spinning in his hands as he flipped, firing twice in midair. Two Dragons at the far end of the restaurant were caught in the blasts. One reeled back, his arm severed clean at the shoulder, the stump spraying red. The other lost his head entirely, the body toppling a heartbeat later, collapsing into itself.
Raúl landed in a low crouch.
A blade came at him from the side. He slipped the first swing, pivoted past the second, then caught the third, locking the attacker's arm under his own with brutal efficiency. He drove the barrel down and fired.
The Dragon screamed as his leg vanished at the knee. Raúl stepped in before the scream could rise, jammed the muzzle into the man's mouth.
Eyes went wide.
He pulled the trigger.
The ceiling bloomed red.
Raúl let the corpse drop, stepping back as blood ran freely down his face, soaking his hair, his collar, his hands. He lifted his gaze to the three remaining Dragons.
They stood frozen. Wands shook. Blades trembled. Terror hollowed their faces as they stared at him, at the carnage strewn across the restaurant, at the man who had carved through their number without pause or mercy.
Raúl lifted both weapons and gave them a sharp shake. Two empty magazines clattered free, striking the floor with heavy, metallic thuds that echoed through the wrecked restaurant.
The remaining Dragons screamed.
One panicked and unleashed a wild barrage of spells, green flashes tearing through the air. The other two rushed him, one with a dagger, the other with a sword raised high.
Raúl moved again.
He reached to his belt and snapped two fresh magazines into the air in a single fluid motion. Then he jumped, back-flipped, and twisted mid-spin. His body rotating with practiced precision. One magazine slapped cleanly into place as he caught it against the open chamber. He fired in the same breath.
The Dragon's head burst apart, splitting down the center and blooming outward in a grotesque spray as the body crumpled before it could even fall forward.
Raúl spun through the motion, caught the second magazine, slid it home, and fired again.
The blast tore straight through the next attacker, cleaving him in half. His upper body slid away from his hips in a wet, collapsing mess, hitting the floor a moment later with a dull, final thump.
Raúl landed lightly.
He turned, slowly. Hi blood-slicked gaze settling on the last Dragon still standing near the counter. The same one who had thrown the sack at the cashier.
The man's knees buckled. His breath hitched. Then he ran.
Raúl watched him bolt for the shattered doorway, his gaze tracking the man through the stained-glass of the restaurant as he fled into the street beyond. Shapes shifted behind the panes, their forms warped by streaks of color and broken light. At least six more silhouettes waited beyond the glass, poised and ready.
Raúl glanced back at Bastion, and for a brief, fragile moment their eyes met. The cold, ruthless glaze that had settled over Raúl's gaze softened, just barely, but it said more than any apology or explanation ever could. Bastion drew in a breath, his mouth opening as if the right words might somehow stop what was about to happen, but they never made it past his lips.
Raúl's thumbs flicked the cross-shaped controls on the hammers, precise and practiced, and the same impassive voice answered him once more.
"Perforatus."
Whatever humanity had surfaced vanished in an instant. His eyes hardened again as his focus shifted toward the window, and Bastion calling his name was the last thing to cut through the restaurant before the next act of violence followed.
****
The young man ran, boots slapping hard against the cracked asphalt as he tore down the street, lungs burning, panic clawing up his throat. He risked a glance over his shoulder and nearly stumbled at the sight that followed him out into the open. The restaurant walls were slick with crimson now, smeared and dripping, and in his mind the thing that had done it all was still there, still moving, still hunting. His breaths came ragged behind the red bandanna. Eyes blown wide as the certainty set in that the monster who had turned his crew into scattered meat was right on his heels.
He barely had time to lift his head before he slammed into someone solid, the impact knocking the air from his lungs as a shrill cry ripped from his chest. He staggered back, nearly tripping over himself, staring up at the half-dozen figures clustered behind the man he'd collided with.
"Hey, hey, easy," the other man snapped, also dressed in reds, catching him by the shoulders to steady him, his brow knitting in irritation. "What the hell is going on?" He glanced past him toward the street, then back again. "This was supposed to be quick. Smash and grab. What's with all the damned screaming?"
"They're dead, man. Dead!" the runner blurted, words tumbling over one another. "One second we were in there, easy money, and the next—" His throat seized, the memory hitting him full force. "Shit!" he choked. "That Tower pendejo, he—!"
The man's grip tightened. "What the hell are you talking about?" Panic crept into his tone now, the bravado bleeding out of it. "What Tower pan—"
Then the tall stained-glass window erupted outward in a violent bloom of color, pastel shards exploding into the street like confetti flung from a cannon. Every head snapped up as a figure crashed through the frame, Guardian grays torn with glass and dust, arms crossed tight over his chest with a pair of unfamiliar weapons locked in his hands. He hit the ground hard, boots biting into the asphalt, and without breaking stride he surged forward, coat snapping and flaring behind him like a banner caught in a gale.
"It's him—it's him, shit!" the runner shrieked, stumbling back as he jabbed a trembling finger toward Raúl.
The Dragons reacted on instinct, flinching and scrambling, wands half-drawn, blades scraping free in panic rather than discipline. Raúl didn't slow. He leveled both weapons and squeezed the triggers. A low hum answered, followed by three concentric pulses of ringed runes, and then a blinding flash tore through the air. Two of them were punched clean through, fist-sized holes blooming in their chests as if something invisible had caved them in from the inside. Their eyes went wide, blood bursting from their mouths in wet sprays before they collapsed where they stood.
Before anyone could even scream, Raúl was already among them. He slid to a dead stop at the center of the group, boots carving lines into the grit, arms uncrossing and snapping back again as he fired in rapid succession. The street became a kill circle. Blasts tore through flesh and bone alike, crimson mist splattering across the asphalt and brickwork, screams shredding the air as bodies were ripped apart mid-motion. Terror froze across their faces in their final moments, expressions locked in shock as they were reduced to mangled ruin, limbs buckling, torsos hollowed, lives extinguished almost faster than the eye could follow.
Raúl turned once, fluid and precise, his arms settling into a final, deliberate pose, one weapon angled down, the other raised, smoke curling faintly from both barrels. Around him, one by one, the remaining Dragons dropped, their bodies hitting the ground in a rough, uneven ring.
He drew in a slow breath.
Then he let it out.
A scream tore through the ringing silence and dragged Raúl's attention to the last remaining Dragon.
The man stood a few paces away, wand raised but useless, his arm trembling so violently it rattled. As Raúl advanced, slow and unhurried, the Dragon shrieked again, the sound cracking into panic. The wand slipped from his fingers and clattered uselessly onto the asphalt as he stumbled backward, losing his footing and crashing down onto his backside. His heels scraped desperately against the ground as he tried to crawl away, legs kicking, a dark, spreading stain blooming across his cargo shorts.
Raúl stopped just short of him.
The weapon in his hand hummed, low and predatory, the sound vibrating through the street like a held breath before a storm.
"Stop, please!" the Dragon sobbed as his hands flew up in a pathetic attempt at shielding himself. "I'm just a cholo, man!" he babbled, words tumbling over each other. "I ain't even one of the amigos, I swear! I just run with 'em sometimes. Don't kill me. I don't wanna to die!"
His back scraped helplessly against the asphalt as he tried to shrink away, eyes glassy with terror, breath hitching in wet, panicked gasps.
Raúl's jaw tightened, teeth bared as the words slipped out, heavy with years of buried rage. "Neither did mi mama, mi papa. You hijo de puta," he said quietly. "Neither did all the people you and your pedazo de mierda crew butchered along the way." His eyes burned. "I made a promise that when I came home, the first thing I'd do was find Ramón and all his little cabrones and blow their Godsdamned brains out."
"R-Ramón?" the Dragon gasped, eyes widening. "Y-you don't know?"
Raúl's brow twitched, just slightly.
"R-Ramón's gone, man," the Dragon rushed on. "Smoked. Valentino's runnin' things now."
For a heartbeat, something flickered across Raúl's face. Surprise, maybe even disappointment, gone almost as soon as it appeared. What replaced it was harder, colder.
"Qué lástima," he muttered. "But it don't matter who's holdin' the reins now." His grip tightened around the weapon, the hum deepening. "They all end the same. Every last one of you." He tipped his head toward the bodies scattered behind him. "Just like those bastardos."
His gaze dropped back to the Dragon. "You know… I spent my whole damn life afraid of you Colors."
He stepped closer, looming over the man, the hum rising, sharper now, angrier.
"But not anymore."
The weapon answering with a rising whine as the Dragon's eyes went impossibly wide.
"And now," Raúl continued, "I'm going to show everyone in the Heights that they don't have to be afraid either."
"No—no!" the Dragon shrieked as he scrambled backward. "Mierda! Gods, please, mercy!"
"When you get to the other side," he said evenly, "tell Ramón that Raúl Reyes sends his regards."
He leaned in just enough for the words to land.
"And tell him to make room," Raúl continued. "Cause I'm just getting started."
His finger tightened around the trigger, and then steel struck.
Bastion's blade snapped into Raúl's weapon with brutal precision, knocking the barrel skyward. A blast of energy tore free, flaring neon lavender as it scorched the air above them, sparks screaming where steel scraped steel. Raúl staggered back a half step, eyes flying wide as they locked with Bastion's mismatched irises, narrowed and furious, teeth bared as the short blade in his hand flashed silver beneath the sunlight.
Bastion followed through, setting the glowing tip of his sword squarely on Raúl, his breathing heavy, controlled only by force of will. Raúl recovered just as fast, bringing his weapon up again, aiming it straight at Bastion, the same cold, lethal focus burning in his gaze.
"That's enough," Bastion said. The blade's edge pulsed with a sharp red sheen. "Stand down. I won't ask again. We're Guardians, not Executioners."
"Out of my way, Lieutenant," Raúl hissed through clenched teeth. "Unless you want to die for that cucaracha over there." His grip tightened, knuckles whitening around the weapon. "When I joined the Tower, I swore to the Gods I'd wipe the Colors from the face of Avalon. And not you, not anyone, was going to stand in my way." His gaze sharpened, cutting. "Besides, I thought, of all people, a Reinhardt would understand what it means to see something through to the bitter end."
Bastion drew in a sharp breath, steadying himself. "Back inside," he shot back. "You told me the Tower doesn't define us." His eyes hardened. "That we're defined by what we choose to be."
He snapped his gaze sideways, just for a heartbeat. "So, take a good look around you. Really look."
Raúl's eyes flicked where Bastion gestured. Faces stared back at him. Some frozen in fear, hands clamped over mouths, skin pale with horror. Others burning with anger and revulsion, as if Raúl himself had just given shape to every reason they'd learned to hate the Tower in the first place.
Bastion didn't relent. "Do you still believe what you said?" His words cut deeper now. "Or were you just talking out of your ass? Because from where I'm standing, you look an awful lot like the same Norsefire bastards I helped put down."
He angled his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge the trembling Dragon behind him. "I'm sorry about your parents. Truly. But if you put on those grays and pinned that badge to your chest just to settle a score, then you picked the wrong line of work, kid."
The air between them crackled, not with magic this time, but with a choice stretched thin enough to snap. Raúl's weapon trembled in his grip, the hum wavering as his jaw tightened, then loosened. He drew a slow, grounding breath, exhaled, and the glow bled away until the lines dulled to inert gray. With a practiced motion, he twirled the weapon once and holstered it, the tension draining from his posture as he straightened and came to attention, offering a short, formal bow.
"You're right. I'm sorry… sir," he said evenly. "I accept full responsibility for my actions, and whatever consequences come with them."
Bastion slid his blade back into its holder, the metal seating with a soft, final click, then pinched the bridge of his nose as he surveyed the wreckage around them. He let out a breath that was half a sigh, half a groan. "Well, this is a fine mess." His gaze flicked upward just in time to see a jagged shard of stained glass slip free and shatter on the sidewalk. "First day out, and the whole thing's already gone sideways."
Behind him, the last Dragon clutched at Bastion's leg, sobbing, his grip desperate and shaking. "Thank you, thank you, amigo!" he cried.
Bastion glanced down, unimpressed. He wrenched his leg free and drove his boot into the man's face with a sharp, efficient kick. Blood sprayed as the Dragon collapsed backward, his gratitude frozen into a crooked smile as he went limp.
Raúl let out a small, satisfied scoff.
Bastion's head snapped back toward him. "You think this is funny?" His eyes narrowed. "Because I sure as hell ain't laughing." He lifted a finger, stabbing the air between them. "I don't know what's going on in that head of yours, but I'm making this crystal clear. You go rogue on me again, and there won't be a warning. I'll put you down right alongside the rest of them."
"With all due respect, Lieutenant," Raúl snapped, tight with restrained heat, "I apologize for my conduct, but I won't apologize for what I did." His jaw clenched as he gestured toward the wreckage. "You saw what they were about to do to that old man. To everyone in that restaurant."
He shook his head, eyes burning. "You don't know the Colors like I do. They're ruthless. Robbery's a pastime, killing's a sport." A sharp breath tore from him. "Mierda, if I hadn't acted, there would've been bodies on that floor. I stopped it."
His gaze locked onto Bastion's. "I saved him. I saved all of them."
"Sweet cheese and crackers, there's always going to be someone out there who needs saving, kid!" Bastion shot back, the words snapping out of him, fast and edged with strain. "That's the job. That's always the job. What you don't do is—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Bastion froze, eyes widening as the realization hit him square in the chest. His hand slid up into his hair, fingers gripping hard. "Oh… no." His words cracked as he stared off into the middle distance. "No, no, no." He sucked in a breath and then burst out, half laughing, half horrified. "I'm turning into Frank. I'm turning into the old man. Gods above, it's happening."
He threw his arms skyward in dramatic despair, bellowing at the heavens, while Raúl simply tilted his head, one eyebrow lifting in open confusion.
Around them, the gathered onlookers watched in stunned silence, unsure whether to fear them, thank them, or simply get out of the way, as distant sirens began to rise over the rooftops, their wail threading through the aftermath of blood, glass, and smoke.
****
Far from Caerleon, miles away in the very heart of the Crown City, Frank lingered at the edge of a bustling thoroughfare. Gray-stone buildings rose on either side of the road, their windows reflecting the steady hum of passing vehicles and the constant tide of bodies flowing along the paved sidewalks, each person wrapped in their own errands and concerns. He stood with his back against the thick glass window of a café, a cup of coffee cradled in his hand, watching the city move.
Without warning, a sharp sneeze tore out of him.
"Bless you," Bran said at his side, croissant halfway to his mouth as he glanced over.
Frank sniffed, rubbing at his nose through his glove, his brow creasing with mild annoyance. "Well, shit," he muttered, "I hope I'm not coming down with something."
****
The resonant gongs of the Excalibur Clock Tower rolled outward in deep, measured chimes, their echoes carrying through the city, through battle-scarred brick and drifting grit, through the fresh-cut stone and wet mortar that now bound new walls together. Caerleon, once broken and bleeding, was healing. Not whole, not yet, but healing all the same. Families driven from their homes were returning, reclaiming lives that had been torn apart piece by piece, and though many would never truly recover what was lost—faces they would never see again, heirlooms stolen by scavengers or swallowed by the retreating hands of Norsefire. It was, at the very least, a beginning. A chance to start anew.
Mayor Ramonda and King Uther had been relentless. The Mage's Association, and the Wizarding Council in particular, had been squeezed for every last Plata in restitution, their coffers drained to fund the city's reconstruction. It was done without mercy, and while many among the Council remained comfortably wealthy despite the loss, it was not the diminished fortunes that cut the deepest. It was the humiliation. The public reckoning. A stain that lingered, especially for one councilman who continued to rage behind closed doors, long after his peers had grown weary of his tirades and excuses.
Ryan sat on a bench in the town square, his gaze drifting across what had once been nothing but rubble and shattered stone only weeks ago. Now, life moved through it again. Stories still circulated, carried from mouth to mouth, about the unbreakable Terra girl who had stood toe to toe with Barton Geddes, the Iron Hands himself, and walked away victorious. The thought drew a quiet smile from him. He remembered the sad, fractured child he had once seen huddled in the corner of a cluttered pantry, and it eased something in his chest to know she had found the strength to rise again.
The fountain had been rebuilt, its waters clear and steady. Trees had been replanted, their leaves fresh and green, bushes and thistles growing thick along the edges of the square. Buildings stood half-finished, framed by steel scaffolding as workers went about their labor, hammers ringing, voices calling out in practiced rhythm. It wasn't the Caerleon of old, but it was alive, and for now, that was enough.
The mid-afternoon sun rested comfortably on his shoulders, warming the white fabric of his shirt and the black waistcoat fitted neatly over it. Brown leather belts crossed his torso, the silverwork of his side holster finely wrought, its firearm tucked beneath his left arm. Black slacks fell cleanly to polished loafers that caught the light with every shift of his foot.
Ryan scooped another spoonful of vanilla ice cream from the waffle cone and let it melt on his tongue, eyes rolling back in open appreciation. "Christ," he muttered around the spoon, "whoever ends up in the mayor's chair ought to run ads just for the food here, because holy hell."
He took another bite, slower this time, letting it linger as he actually paid attention to the taste, his brows lifting despite himself. "You know what?" he said around the spoon. "Let it be officially recorded somewhere that everything I've ever said about how much the food in this city sucks ass—I, Ryan Ashford, hereby take it all back."
Ryan then tapped the spoon against his chin, thoughtful now, eyes drifting as if already sketching plans in his head. "That said… it could use a little American flair." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Huh. An American diner in Caerleon. Grease, coffee strong enough to wake the dead, pancakes the size of shields." He let out a soft, mischievous chuckle. "Now that's a business venture I could get behind."
His grin widened, eyes glinting as he took another scoop. "Hell, maybe I could even sucker good ol' Workie and Serfy into it—"
"Hey!"
The sharp bark of a voice cut across the square.
Ryan froze mid-motion, the spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. His dark eyes snapped up, tracking the sound past the fountain. Two figures stood there, gray coats and insignia marking them unmistakably as Guardians of the Tower. Ordinarily, that alone wouldn't have drawn more than a passing glance.
But then he saw her.
Small. Slight. Snow-white hair. The same ragged clothes. Scaled arms and legs, wings folded tight, horns framing a face pulled taut with fear as she clutched a basket of flowers to her chest. There was no mistaking her. It was the same dragon girl he had seen two days earlier, unmistakable despite the crowd and the passing time.
"Nora?" The name slipped from his lips before he realized he'd spoken.
The Guardians' voices rose, edged with impatience, with authority sharpened into something harsher. Nora seemed to shrink beneath it, shoulders drawing in, knuckles whitening around the basket's handle.
Ryan lowered the spoon back into the cone, exhaling through his nose as he shook his head. With a casual flick, he dropped the half-eaten ice cream into a nearby bin and slid his hands into his pockets.
Then he rose from the bench and started toward them, unhurried, as if this were nothing more than a minor inconvenience on an otherwise pleasant afternoon.
****
"What did I tell you before?" the young man snarled, teeth bared as he leaned in, the threat in his posture enough to make Nora's eyes widen. "The Square is off limits." His gaze dragged over her. "Especially to your kind."
The Guardian beside him scoffed, folding his arms. "You should be grateful Mayor Ramonda even tolerated you and your little pack of beasties in the first place." His lips curled. "With her on her way out, maybe the next one will finally have the spine to send you lot packing." He cleared his throat and spat onto the stones, the glob landing just short of her feet. "Adrakist filth."
"P-please, sir," Nora murmured as she shrank in on herself, fingers tightening around the basket. "I mean no harm. I bring no trouble. I'm only looking for coin."
The first Guardian smirked, a sharp, humorless sound escaping him. "You hear that?" He nudged his partner, who laughed in turn. "Coin. Dragon-born trying to pretend they're normal." His eyes narrowed, cold and cutting. "Trying to act like they belong."
Nora swallowed, her throat bobbing.
"I'm not going to ask again," the young man said, his hand settling on the hilt of his sword. "Clear out, or I'll—"
"Do what, exactly?"
The words slid in smooth and unbothered, close enough to make both men flinch. In the next breath, Ryan had slung an arm around each of their shoulders, pulling them in with an easy grin, as though they were old friends reunited by chance. "Afternoon, officers," he added brightly. "Beautiful day, huh? Little warm for my taste though. That's why I never high-tailed it down to Miami when I had the chance."
Both Guardians stiffened as if struck by lightning, their attention snapping fully to him. Nora's eyes settled on him, widening as she recognized him.
"P-Professor Ashford!" one of them blurted, color draining from his face. "We didn't—I mean, we—"
"Were just about to head out, right?" Ryan went on lightly, grin still in place.
The smile lingered for half a beat longer, then began to fade. Not all at once. Slowly. Like ice setting in.
"Look, I know you were on the right side of history when those Norsies came knockin' our doors down," He tightened his jaw, the grin long gone. "But I sure as hell didn't put those mass-murderin' maniacs in the dirt just to turn around and trade one sumbitch with a badge for another."
His arms tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to make the message unmistakable.
"You were there, weren't you?" he continued quietly. "At the Great Hall. After the dust settled." His tone dipped. "You saw the bodies."
The color drained from their faces. One of them swallowed hard, throat bobbing.
"So, do me a favor," Ryan murmured, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed their ears. "Next time you feel like bein' a couple of irredeemable assholes, picture that moment again and burn it right into your skulls."
His grip tightened, just enough to make the message unmistakable. "Because this whole damned city would love nothin' more than to see you Tower piss-stains laid out stone cold in a pinewood box. Hell, that'd be the closest thing they'd ever get to the movies." His words dipped lower, dangerous now. "And if I catch you, or any of you limped-dicked bastards in gray, so much as looking sideways at her or anyone like her again, I just might oblige them."
"And believe me when I say, the official story would be that you boys plumb went and committed suicide—repeatedly." He eased back slightly, but the threat lingered. "Burgess already's got you neck-deep in shit. Don't be stupid enough to make it worse."
He let go. Both Guardians stumbled back at once, casting him a single, shaken glance before turning on their heels and hurrying off through the square.
Ryan watched them go, then lifted a hand and waved after them with an easy grin. "Buh-bye now. Take care," he called. "And try not to piss yourselves stupid on the way back to the cop shop."
His gaze shifted to Nora. She flinched. It was subtle, barely a twitch, but he caught it. The fear shimmering in those bright, serpent-gold eyes, pupils drawn thin. Terror, held tight and quiet. Ryan couldn't fault her for it. He'd just sent two fully grown Guardians scattering like scared kids bolting from a haunted house.
He eased his hands back into his pockets, posture loosening.
"Ice cream," he said.
Nora blinked, head tilting slightly. Confusion crept in where fear had been, tentative and unsure.
"Ice cream," Ryan repeated, softer now. "You like it?"
Her gaze dropped to the stones at her feet, her tail swaying behind her in a nervous arc. "I–I've never had any before."
Ryan let out a quiet breath. "Huh." He nodded toward a nearby bench. "Go on. Sit tight. I'll be right back."
Before she could respond, he turned and headed for the small stall at the edge of the square. Nora watched him go, uncertainty flickering across her face. After a moment, she glanced around, then toward the bench again.
Carefully, she made her way over and sat down, clutching her basket as she waited.