The cries tore through the estate from every direction, sharp and unrestrained, rising over one another in a chaotic swell that swallowed the last remnants of order, while the crack and flash of spells followed in rapid succession, streaks of sickly green and violent red cutting through the air as they illuminated the room in bursts of harsh, unnatural light that chased shadows into every corner. Glass shattered somewhere to the side, the sound splintering into a cascade of fragments, while wood gave way under force and bolts drove deep into beams with heavy, unforgiving thuds, the clash of steel ringing out in fleeting, brutal exchanges that ended just as quickly as they began.
Meachum dropped at once, whatever pride he possessed abandoned in favor of survival as he hit the floor with a strangled cry, scrambling for cover as the chaos unfolded around him, yet Mycellus did not move, could not move, his body locked in place as his gaze snapped from one point to another, drawn helplessly toward every scream, every cry of pain, every sound of violence that echoed through the cabin. Fire roared somewhere deeper within the structure, only to be swallowed by the cold that forced its way inside through shattered windows and broken walls, the wind howling faintly as it carried with it the distant echoes of conflict still unfolding beyond.
It was relentless, overwhelming in a way that allowed no room for comprehension, no space for reason to take hold.
"Do something, you bloody fools!" Meachum snarled from the floor.
The guards within did not move.
Instead, they stood rigid where they were, their bodies locked in place while their eyes flickered wildly from one corner of the room to another, searching for an enemy that refused to reveal itself, their breaths shallow, uneven, as the silence thickened around them in a way that felt unnatural, suffocating, as though the very shadows had begun to close in.
For a fleeting moment, nothing happened.
Then the air shifted.
Thin strands of smoke began to coil along the floor, slipping between boots and chair legs before rising in slow, deliberate spirals, gathering and twisting into vague, human-like silhouettes that hovered at the edge of perception, their forms indistinct and wavering, cloaked in shadow so complete that they seemed less like figures and more like absences in the world itself.
The guards reacted too late.
Wands snapped upward in trembling hands, and the room erupted into bursts of violent color as streaks of green and red tore through the dim interior, each flash illuminating the space in fractured pulses while spells were cast in blind panic, their aim uncertain, their fear evident in every erratic movement.
It made no difference.
The figures moved without sound, without weight, gliding through the chaos as though untouched by the world around them, and one by one the guards fell, their bodies collapsing before their minds could even begin to grasp what had struck them, eyes wide, mouths parting in silent shock as the breath was stolen from them mid-motion, their wands slipping from lifeless fingers before they ever reached the ground.
As quickly as they had formed, the shadowed figures unraveled, their shapes dissolving into drifting wisps that scattered through the room at unnatural speed, slipping along walls, across ceilings, vanishing into nothing as though they had never existed at all.
A cry broke through the aftermath.
One guard, overtaken by terror, turned and bolted for the entrance, his wand clattering uselessly from his grasp as instinct overtook reason, his boots striking hard against the floor in a desperate attempt to escape whatever unseen force had claimed the others.
He did not make it far.
A sharp twang cut through the air, clean and distinct, followed instantly by a flash of ethereal blue that tore across the room with violent precision, striking him mid-stride and lifting him clear off his feet as though seized by an invisible hand, his body hurled backward with brutal force until it met the wall behind him.
There he remained.
An arrow of shimmering blue energy protruded from his chest, its glow steady and cold as it held him suspended, his legs hanging a full foot above the ground while his body spasmed, a strangled, wet sound forcing its way from his throat as he struggled for breath that would not come.
For a moment, he lingered there, caught between life and death.
The arrow then dissipated into nothingness, its form unraveling into faint motes of blue that vanished into the air, and with nothing left to hold him in place, his body dropped heavily to the floor below, lifeless before it struck.
The silence that followed settled heavily across the room, thick and suffocating, pressing down upon everything it touched as though the very air had grown dense with what had just transpired, leaving behind only the faint crackle of the fire and the slow settling of debris.
What followed was not movement, not at first, but sound.
The measured tap of polished loafers against wood carried through the stillness with quiet authority, echoing just enough to draw the eye without disturbing the fragile control that had settled over the room, and as it continued, Mycellus felt his attention pulled toward it against his will, his breath thinning as the figure emerged from the shadows and into the firelight, revealed not all at once, but in careful increments, as though the room itself had been waiting for him to step forward and claim it.
The young man stood untouched amidst the ruin, his composure unshaken, his presence sharply at odds with the devastation around him. His dark navy three-piece suit immaculate and unmarked, the fabric falling perfectly into place as though untouched by the violence that had just unfolded, while a slender chain of gold traced from his vest pocket with quiet refinement.
Resting along his shoulder was a long obsidian compound crossbow, its silhouette sleek, closer in form to a rifle than any traditional bow, its surface etched with subtle raven motifs that spoke less of decoration and more of identity, his grip firm yet effortless, one hand wrapped around the pistol grip, his finger resting against the trigger with a familiarity that suggested it required no thought at all.
His eyes moved next.
Cold, precise, and unmistakably focused, their pale lime-green hue cut through the dimness as they swept across the room, taking in the bodies, the blood, the aftermath, not with shock, nor hesitation, but with the quiet assessment of someone for whom such scenes were neither new nor unexpected, and as he lifted a hand to adjust his glasses with a small, almost absent motion, the firelight caught briefly against the lenses, reflecting just enough to obscure what lay behind them for a fleeting second.
Yet it was not the weapon, nor the calm, nor even the unshaken composure that drew the eye most.
It was the badge.
Pinned neatly to his lapel, wrought in silver and gold, its surface gleaming faintly in the firelight, the emblem unmistakable, and for those who knew what it meant, impossible to ignore.
The Inquisition.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
His gaze drifted across the room, taking in the shattered remains of wine bottles strewn across the floor, the fine spread of delicacies reduced to a careless ruin, and the broken glass of whiskey tumblers scattered beneath the lifeless form of a guard. A faint curl touched his lips, not quite a smile, something sharper, more malicious.
"You'll have to forgive the sudden intrusion, I'm afraid it is terribly discourteous of me to impose so unannounced." His eyes lifted then, settling on them with quiet intent. "I do hope I haven't interrupted anything of importance."
"R-Ravenclaw?" The name catching Mycellus unevenly as it left him, caught between disbelief and rising fury as his composure twisted, fear hardening into something sharper, something more defiant as he forced himself upright.
"What in bloody blazes do you think you're doing here?!" he demanded, the words gaining strength as he clung to them. "This is a private residence. Even as a Hand of the Tower, you have neither the right nor the jurisdiction to—!"
He did not finish.
The crossbow lowered in his direction with quiet certainty, the motion smooth and unhurried as it came to rest squarely upon him, and with it came the low, resonant hum of gathering power, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the air itself as an ethereal blue bolt formed at its core, the light it cast cold and unwavering.
"With all due respect, Councilman Peverell," Bran said, his tone unchanged, measured to the point of indifference, "it is Grand Inquisitor Ravenclaw."
His gaze did not waver.
"And under the rights afforded to every citizen of Avalon, one is entitled to remain silent." He let the words settle before his gaze fixed more sharply upon him. "And if I were you, I would make full use of that provision and keep that rather garrulous mouth of yours firmly closed, if only because you are not the reason I am here."
The crossbow shifted then, not abruptly, but with deliberate intent, its aim moving away from Mycellus and settling upon Meachum, the faint hum of power never diminishing as the truth of the moment settled into place.
"He is."
"Wait—wait!" the portly man's voice broke through the heavy silence, shrill with panic as he scrambled forward on unsteady limbs, his hands slipping against the polished wood while he dragged himself upright with a desperate, graceless urgency that stripped away whatever dignity he once carried.
"Wait, damn you, just wait!" he barked, breath hitching as he hauled himself into the armchair, fingers digging into the leather as though it might anchor him against what stood before him. "Have you lost your mind? Have you completely lost your damned mind?!"
Bran did not answer, nor did his expression so much as flicker, his gaze fixed upon the man with a stillness that felt far more dangerous than anger, the crossbow resting steady in his grasp as though it had always been meant to point in this direction.
"I am Lord Meachum," the man continued, forcing strength back into his words as he straightened, clutching at his title like a shield that had never failed him before. "An Entitled, do you understand me? A noble of Avalon. Not only do I possess immunity, I possess absolute impunity!"
His lip curled as he leaned forward, baring his teeth with growing defiance. "The laws of this land do not apply to me. They never have. That has been the order of things since the foundation of this civilization itself. The Tower, Director—"
"If you so much as utter Burgess' name," Bran cut in, "I will put a bolt through your skull before your next breath has the chance to leave you."
The threat did not rise, did not need to. It settled into the room with absolute certainty.
"That man you so eagerly praised, the one you clung to as though his shadow alone could shield you from consequence," Bran continued, taking a single step forward as the faint hum of power at the crossbow's core deepened, "is gone, and whatever protection you believed he afforded you vanished with him."
"D-did you just threaten me?" Meachum's face flushed a deep, mottled red, the veins along his temples rising as whatever composure he had clung to began to splinter under something he could neither command nor dismiss. "You would dare to threaten me?"
"You low-born, wretched, insignificant little bastard, do you have any idea who you're speaking to?!" he went on. "The force I can bring to bear? After what you've done here, I will see fire and ruin brought down upon you and everything you hold dear."
He leaned forward, breath unsteady, eyes blazing with a mix of rage and something far less certain. "And when this reaches the House of Lords, when they learn of the spectacle you've made tonight, mark my words, a cell in Revel's End will be the least of your concerns."
A harsh, brittle laugh tore from him, hollow and strained, the sound scraping against the silence as it carried far more venom than mirth. "No… on second thought," he went on, his lips curling as something uglier took hold, "I think I'll take a far greater pleasure in seeing you flayed alive for it."
His head tilted slightly, his gaze flicking toward the girl on the floor, lingering just long enough to sharpen his intent. "In fact, I might even see to it that your dear sister is added to my—"
Bran's finger tightened. The crossbow answered with a low, resonant hum, the ethereal string flaring to life in a sudden burst of sapphire light as it snapped forward, and the bolt tore through the dimly lit room with precise, unforgiving speed before slamming cleanly into Meachum's shoulder, driving him back into the chair with a force that rattled wood and bone alike.
A strangled cry ripped free from him, raw and immediate, his body jerking against the impact as his eyes flew wide, locking onto the glowing shaft embedded through his flesh, the light pulsing faintly as it held him pinned in place.
Bran did not lower the weapon.
"Next time." His words edged with something far colder than anger as the crossbow reformed and readied itself in his grip, "I won't be so considerate about where I place it."
Across the room, Mycellus' panicked gaze flickered between them, sharp and calculating despite the tension tightening across his features, and as the exchange drew Bran's full attention forward, the man allowed his hand to drift toward the hilt of his wand, each inch gained measured with care.
He did not reach it.
The whisper of steel cut through the air so softly it might have gone unnoticed, yet the cold edge that settled against his throat was unmistakable, the pressure just enough to still him entirely as his breath caught, his body locking in place. His eyes widened as he turned, carefully, just enough to glimpse the figure behind him, and recognition struck at once.
"Reagen," Mycellus spat, the name leaving him sharp with venom, disbelief tightening every line of his face as the cold edge at his throat held him exactly where he was.
"Captain Reagen, you overdressed scarecrow," Frank corrected, the blade resting with quiet certainty against Mycellus' skin.
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth, not warm, not kind, but steady in a way that suggested this moment had been a long time coming.
"I gotta say, I've dreamed about this day more times than I care to admit, Peverell." The faint smile at the corner of his mouth carrying no warmth, only a quiet, long-held satisfaction that had finally found its moment. "Though in most of those dreams, I don't stop here. I bleed you out slow, listen to you scream and squeal the whole way through."
The blade never wavered, resting against Mycellus' throat with a certainty that made the threat feel inevitable rather than implied.
"So, why don't you do us both a favor," he continued, "and keep that hand right where it is… unless you're actually lookin' to indulge me."
"I am a Councilman!" Mycellus snapped. "A member of the Wizarding Council of Avalon. Is there nothing sacred anymore?!" His expression twisted, indignation sharpening into fury. "The impudence, the audacity! No one, no one, has ever dared to lay a blade against my throat, and lived to speak of it. I swear by the Gods, I will make you—!"
The steel shifted, just enough.
It kissed his neck, grazing along the stubble of his jaw, close enough that the promise of it settled into his pulse. Mycellus' throat bobbed, the words faltering where they stood.
"Yeah," Frank muttered, unimpressed, "there it is again."
His grip tightened slightly, not enough to cut, just enough to remind.
"All that noise and not a damn thing behind it," he went on. "Wilhelm used to have a name for you. Said you were the Council's little chihuahua. All bark, no bite."
His jaw set, the last trace of humor gone.
"So how about you take the kid's advice, peckerwood," Frank said. "And shut the hell up."
His attention drifted past him then, unhurried, as though the chaos that had torn through the estate was nothing more than background noise, his gaze settling on Meachum with a measured calm that made the room feel smaller.
"Your boys are gone," Frank said. "All of 'em. Shame, really… thought they'd put up more of a fight than that."
His eyes flicked briefly toward what remained of Johnson, the headless body slumped in ruin against the blood-soaked sofa, before his shoulders lifted in a small, indifferent shrug, as though the sight failed to move him in the slightest.
"I'd tell you to ask for your money back," he added, a dry edge threading through his words, "but I think we both know you're a little past the point of filing complaints."
Meachum's expression slackened as Frank's words settled into him. His gaze flickered, unsteady and searching, before landing once more on the ruin that had once been Johnson. Whatever composure he had tried to gather unraveled there, in the quiet confirmation of what had already been done.
Bran followed the man's gaze for the briefest of moments, his eyes settling upon the headless corpse with a composure so steady it bordered on indifference, as though the ruin before him carried no more weight than a passing detail, before his attention returned to Meachum with quiet precision.
In that same instant, the ethereal arrow unraveled into nothing, its glow fading as though it had never been there at all, yet the effect lingered, written plainly across the man's face as his features twisted and tightened, the pain refusing to leave with the weapon that had caused it.
"I imagine you understand what just happened to your associate," he said, "though on the off chance that you do not, allow me to clarify."
He tilted his head slightly, the motion subtle, almost thoughtful.
"For years, I asked my father to teach me his signature spell, the very same one that brought an end to the Musandam War and earned him the title Merciless," Bran continued. "He refused me, every time without exception, insisting that it was far too grotesque, far too cruel, to ever become commonplace."
The color began to ebb from Meachum's face.
"For a long while, I agreed with him," Bran went on, his gaze narrowing just enough to sharpen the intent behind it, "but that was before he and I came to understand that restraint, when misplaced, serves no one. Not the innocent, and certainly not those who suffer beneath men such as yourself."
A brief pause followed, not empty, but heavy, allowing the silence to carry what his words did not need to emphasize.
"It did not take me long to learn it regardless," he added, almost idly. "Spite, as it turns out, is a remarkably effective motivator, though I did not stop at replication. I made… refinements."
He inclined his head toward the remains of Johnson
"You see, as my father wielded it, Raptura was designed to be immediate. Efficient. Those struck by it would perish before the mind could even begin to process what had been done to them," Bran explained. "There was a certain… mercy in that."
The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips, though there was nothing warm in it.
"I found that mercy to be underserved."
His gaze shifted then, drawn for a fleeting moment to the girl on the floor, her trembling form caught between fear and something far more fragile, before he returned his full attention to Meachum, the intensity of it settling like a weight upon the man's chest.
"Because mercy," Bran said softly, "is not something you have ever afforded those beneath you."
The room felt smaller for it.
"So, tell me," he continued, "on what possible grounds should I extend that same courtesy to you?"
"Regardless!" Mycellus snarled, the word cutting sharply through the tension as he straightened despite the blade at his throat, drawing every eye in the room back toward him. Whatever fear had taken root was forced down beneath indignation. "Lord Meachum is an Entitled, noble blood runs through his veins, as am I!"
His gaze hardened. Teeth clenched as though the force of his conviction alone might restore control to a situation that had already slipped beyond him. "What you have done here, Ravenclaw, is nothing short of an overreach, a gross abuse of power of the highest order. The Tower may be tasked with upholding the law, but it is enshrined within Avalon's Constitution that the Highborn are afforded certain privileges!"
Bran regarded him with a faint lift of his brow, the reaction understated yet cutting in its simplicity.
"Did you truly just attempt to lecture me on Avalon's laws, Councilman Peverell," he asked, "Me? An Adjudicator, as though I were not one of the very individuals entrusted to enforce them?"
Mycellus' expression faltered, the certainty behind his words cracking for the briefest moment.
"And yet, you are correct," Bran continued, inclining his head ever so slightly, "However distasteful the truth may be."
His gaze shifted, settling upon Meachum for a fleeting moment, the look he gave him not overtly hostile, yet steeped in a quiet, unmistakable contempt. "A provision born of necessity rather than wisdom, granted at the formation of the first Council of Kings, wherein the Highborn were afforded certain protections in exchange for their loyalty, their wealth, and their influence in the aftermath of the Warring Nations."
A faint pause followed, as though the thought itself displeased him. "A regrettable concession, in my estimation, and one that speaks poorly of King Uther the Fourth's judgment."
That fragile, hopeful smirk returned to both Mycellus and Meachum, clung to with a desperation they tried poorly to conceal, while Frank's brow lifted in quiet interest and the girl on the floor stiffened, uncertainty flickering across her features.
"The arrangement elevated them," Bran went on, his tone steady, almost academic, though the edge beneath it never quite left. "Laws were written to enshrine their status, to safeguard their power and influence, and most importantly, to place them beyond the reach of the very consequences that governed the common citizen." His gaze drifted between the two men. "Predictably, it did not take long before that power bred excess."
He allowed the silence to linger just long enough before continuing.
"Following the Lacrima Treason, King Uther the Seventh saw fit to amend that imbalance, issuing a decree that curtailed their authority and stripped away a number of those protections." His eyes settled on them once more. "You are, of course, aware of this."
The tightness in their expressions was answer enough.
"But I digress," Bran said, lightly, as though brushing aside the history with a measured ease. "For the sake of simplicity, what were once considered rights have since been reduced to privileges, and as with all such privileges, they come with conditions."
"They may shield you from certain proceedings, allow you to bypass due process under the jurisdiction of the Highborn Court, but they are neither enshrined nor absolute."
A faint, almost imperceptible shift in his posture followed, the finality of what came next settling into place.
"And like all privileges," Bran concluded, his gaze unwavering, "they may be revoked."
A pause.
"Entirely."
Mycellus leaned forward slightly despite himself, seizing upon the opening. "Yes, and that requires—"
"A unanimous decree," Bran finished for him, the interruption seamless, "from the Council of Kings."
The words hung there for a fraction of a second.
Then, Bran reached into his jacket.
What he withdrew was not subtle, nor was it small. A rosette of solid gold, heavy in both form and implication, its surface engraved with a crest that bore the unmistakable authority of the Council itself.
Without ceremony, without flourish, he let it fall onto the seat beside Mycellus. The soft weight of it striking the cushion seemed louder than it should have been. The man stared at it, his breath catching, his composure fracturing in a way no argument had managed to achieve, his eyes widening as recognition set in with brutal clarity.
"I-it cannot be…" he murmured as his gaze snapped back to Bran. "That… that is impossible!"
"It was settled rather simply," Bran replied, almost idly "Over tea, if memory serves. Chamomile." His gaze returned to Meachum, whose face had drained of all color, leaving behind only the stark outline of dawning realization. "And King Uther, in delivering that very rosette, made his position abundantly clear."
His words sharpened, not in volume, but in intent.
"No one," Bran said, "is above the law. Least of all men who cloak themselves in nobility while wallowing in filth."
The silence that followed was absolute.
"That," he continued, gesturing lightly toward the rosette, "is the authority of the Council of Kings, granting me full jurisdiction to bring any individual to account for their crimes, regardless of title, birth, or standing." His gaze flicked between them, steady and unwavering. "Noble, commoner, or anything in between."
He leaned forward then, just enough to close the distance, his presence pressing in without force yet impossible to ignore.
"To put it in terms you might better appreciate," Bran added, "I may do whatever the hell I bloody please, and there is not a damned thing either of you can do about it."
A faint, humorless curve touched his lips as he cast a brief, knowing glance toward Mycellus. "What was it you were so fond of saying?" he continued. "That decorum, decree, and etiquette are little more than ornaments, and that the world, in its truest form, is divided simply between those who wield power and those who do not." His head inclined ever so slightly. "A rather inelegant philosophy, though not without a certain degree of accuracy."
His gaze returned to Meachum.
"It is a curious thing," Bran went on, "to find oneself on the opposite side of that divide, is it not? To stand where consequence is no longer a distant concept, but something immediate. Something inescapable."
He paused.
"I will admit," he added, "the longer I occupy this position, the more I begin to understand my former uncle's particular disposition. There is a certain clarity that comes with holding another's fate in your hands, a moment where all pretense falls away and the truth of a person is laid bare before you."
His expression did not soften.
"And there is, I find, an undeniable temptation in it," Bran finished, "in that singular realization that life and death are no longer abstract concepts, but decisions. Yours to make."
He drew in a slow breath and let it out, the faintest hint of fatigue touching his features as though the weight of the moment had already grown tiresome. "Anyway, I've indulged this far longer than I care to," he said, almost to himself. "And I'm afraid the cold has made me rather impatient."
The crossbow lifted yet again. The low hum of power deepening as the etched runes along its frame awakened, their sapphire glow casting a cold light across the room.
"Lord Charles Frederick Meachum," Bran continued, utterly devoid of theatrics, "you are hereby charged with multiple counts of homicide in the second degree, genocide in the second degree, repeated acts of physical assault direct and both indirect, the exploitation and abuse of minors, racketeering, systemic corruption, and a catalogue of additional, abhorrent crimes that I find neither the time nor the inclination to enumerate without testing the limits of my own restraint."
The hum intensified, filling the silence with a quiet, ominous resonance.
"By the authority of the Ius Avalonae, and the powers vested in me by both the Clock Tower and the Council of Kings," Bran said, "the sentence... is death."
He let the words settle, not rushing them, not softening them, allowing their meaning to take hold before his gaze fixed fully upon the man before him.
"How do you plead?"
"Wait… wait!" Meachum's composure shattered entirely as he raised his hands. "Surely there's something… anything!" His gaze snapped wildly to Mycellus. "Stop him! You're a Councilman, do something!"
Mycellus did not move.
"Save me, you useless, pitiful excuse for a man!" Meachum tore through the room, desperation twisting into something uglier as it curdled into rage, his gaze snapping toward Mycellus with a venom that sought anything it could still wound. "You've eaten the finest cuisines at my table, drunk the rarest spirits from my glass, and now, when it matters, you sit there doing nothing? Nothing, like the spineless wretch you've always been?"
His lip curled, contempt spilling freely now that fear had stripped away whatever restraint he once maintained. "Filth, that's all you are, just as I've always said of your house. A Peverell in name and nothing more, clinging to titles you've neither earned nor deserve. Even amongst the Entitled, you and your kin are worth less than the dirt beneath my boots!"
The words came faster, sharper, as though he could claw his way back to power through sheer force of scorn alone.
"Gods above, had I known you'd prove this worthless when it counted, I'd have had you strangled in your sleep long ago!" he spat, eyes wild, shaking with fury that could no longer mask the fear beneath it. "Slowly, painfully, and spared myself the inconvenience of ever relying on you at all!"
Mycellus' eyes widened, the words striking deeper than any blade as his composure faltered, his lip trembling ever so slightly while he held Meachum's gaze, as though searching for something familiar within it and finding nothing but naked contempt staring back. This was a man he had once sat beside for hours on end, sharing bottle after bottle of fine wine as they spoke of trivialities and power in equal measure, drifting from idle conversation into darker territories without hesitation, bound by indulgence and the quiet understanding of men who believed themselves above consequence.
They had laughed together, conspired together, taken a certain satisfaction in the same cruel excesses that defined their circle, and through it all, Mycellus had come to believe, perhaps foolishly, that Meachum stood apart from the rest, that among the vipers he kept for company, this was one he could call something close to a friend.
Now, with those words laid bare between them, that illusion collapsed entirely, leaving behind only the stark realization that whatever bond he thought existed had never been more than convenience, something to be cast aside the moment it ceased to serve its purpose.
For the briefest moment, Mycellus' gaze flickered toward what remained of Johnson, the headless body slumped in grotesque stillness against the ruin of the room, and in that quiet, unwelcome clarity, it struck him with a force far sharper than any blade that for all the scorn he had so freely cast upon the man, all the derision and thinly veiled contempt, there had never truly been a difference between them at all.
Bran watched him for a moment longer, then, with a faint lift of his brow, the hum of the crossbow began to subside as he lowered it.
"Defense noted."
The words had scarcely settled when his hand moved, swift and precise, his wand already drawn as its tip flared with a sharp crimson light. A glyph burst into existence above Meachum's head, intricate and burning, its form spinning once in the air before sinking into nothingness.
Meachum flinched violently, a scream tearing free from him as he braced for impact, and nothing happened.
For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.
Then a laugh escaped him, weak at first, disbelieving, before swelling into something louder, uglier, emboldened by the absence of immediate consequence. Frank exhaled sharply, shaking his head slightly, while Meachum's grin stretched wide, relief warping into arrogance.
"I-Is that it?" he barked. "All that posturing, all that grandstanding, and you don't have the spine to finish it? Seems even the Grand Inquisitor loses his nerve when it comes to an Entitled!"
Bran did not react.
If anything, the faint, unsettling curve of a smile that touched his lips only deepened.
"Unfortunately, Lord Meachum," he said quietly, "you are already dead."
"What in bloody blazes are you—"
The words broke apart as his body betrayed him.
At first it was subtle, a distortion at the edge of his skull, a swelling that seemed almost imperceptible until it wasn't, the flesh beneath his skin shifting unnaturally as pressure built from within. Then it spread, rapidly, violently, his features warping as bone and muscle contorted beneath the surface.
Blood spilled from his eyes, his ears, his mouth, thick and uncontrolled.
"W-what's happening?" he choked, stumbling to his feet. His hands flying to his head as panic overtook him, his balance faltering as he staggered backward. "It… it hurts! Gods, it hurts! Someone, help me! Help me!"
Frank turned his face away, jaw tightening as his eyes shut against the sight, while Mycellus' complexion drained to a lifeless pale, whatever remained of his composure crumbling entirely.
"Help me!" Meachum screamed, his voice cracking under the weight of his own agony, the plea hanging uselessly in the air.
It ended all at once.
His head ruptured with a violent force, the pressure within finally finding release as flesh and bone gave way in a single, catastrophic moment, and the rest of his body followed in grotesque succession, swelling, tearing, and breaking apart as though unraveling from within. The violence of it filled the room, a spray of blood and ruin carried outward in every direction.
And yet, none of it touched Bran.
An unseen barrier held firm around him, the invisible boundary turning aside the aftermath as though the chaos itself refused to reach him, leaving him standing untouched amidst the destruction, calm and composed in a space where nothing else remained so.
Mycellus was struck once more by the aftermath, a fresh splatter of blood and ruin catching across his robes and face, the warmth of it seeping through fine fabric as though determined to remind him, in the most visceral way possible, of what had just transpired before him. He did not move to wipe it away this time, nor did he seem capable of doing so, his body held rigid as the reality of it settled in.
Frank had already moved, dropping behind the couch in time to avoid the worst of it, and when he rose again, it was with a measured calm that bordered on indifference, his expression half-lidded, unimpressed, as though scenes such as this had long since ceased to stir anything within him.
A quiet chuckle slipped from Bran, low and unhurried, yet laced with something far less benign than amusement, something that carried a cruel edge sharpened by certainty. "I suppose there is truth in it after all," he said, almost thoughtfully. "Among the Entitled, there are no friendships, only arrangements of convenience, fleeting alliances that dissolve the moment they are no longer of use."
He inclined his head slightly, his gaze settling on Mycellus with a quiet deliberation that lingered just long enough to find its mark. "It is rather remarkable," he said, "how the true measure of a man only ever reveals itself when he is made to stand before his end."
A faint, restrained curve touched his lips as his eyes sharpened.
"I suspect that little revelation cut far deeper than the blade you used to deliver your personal contribution the Grand Regent's pound," he continued, the softness of his delivery doing nothing to dull the precision of it. "And for what it is worth, I do find myself pitying you… almost."
Mycellus' head snapped toward him, fury igniting where shock had once held dominion, his face twisting as whatever restraint remained gave way entirely. "You… you insolent cur," he spat, shaking with rage. "You dare stand there and speak to me as though you are anything more than gutter-born filth? I swear to the Gods, you and your entire line will answer for this!"
The crossbow moved before the last word had fully left his mouth, snapping back into place with a precision that stole the air from the moment, its aim fixed squarely upon him as the faint hum of power returned, low and steady. Mycellus recoiled instinctively, the threat immediate and undeniable.
"Do not mistake your position, Councilman," Bran said. "The only reason you continue to draw breath is because, despite your many indulgences and carefully veiled transgressions, you have thus far managed to keep your hands just clean enough to evade formal condemnation."
His gaze did not waver, holding Mycellus in place as though the weight of it alone were enough to still him.
"And yet," he continued, more quietly, though no less cutting, "we both know that appearances are a courtesy you afford yourself, not a reflection of truth. You are no less steeped in filth than the worst of them. The only distinction, unfortunate as it may be, is that in the eyes of the law, it is not what we know that carries weight, but what we can prove." A faint pause followed. "So far, the Inquisition has found no stain upon you."
His expression hardened, just slightly.
"Yet."
"But make no mistake," Bran went only, "it is only the last remnants of my restraint that stay my hand from ending this here and now." His eyes narrowed. "No one would mourn you, Councilman. Not your peers, not your allies, and certainly not I. If anything, your passing would be received as a relief. Perhaps even a celebration."
Mycellus' jaw tightened, his lips parting as though to respond, the instinct to lash out rising despite the warning laid bare before him, but the subtle shift of Bran's finger along the trigger, slight though it was, stilled him where he sat.
"But take this as counsel," he added. "Even the most cunning of foxes is eventually caught when it grows too comfortable in its own cleverness."
Mycellus flinched despite himself.
"What you have witnessed here tonight," Bran continued, "I want you to remember it in its entirety. I want it etched into your mind so deeply that it lingers long after the blood has dried, and I want you to carry it back to every last Entitled bastard who still believes themselves beyond consequence."
His expression hardened. The last trace of levity gone.
"None of you are safe," he said. "Those days are over. The illusion of impunity you have all enjoyed has been stripped away, and the Inquisition will see to it that no corner of Avalon remains untouched. The law will not shield you. The Council has abandoned you, and whatever faith you place in higher powers will offer you no reprieve from what is coming."
He eased the crossbow back onto his shoulder, the motion controlled, unhurried, as though the outcome had never been in doubt.
"And when this is done," Bran added as he turned, glancing back over his shoulder, "the land itself will bear witness to the cost of your arrogance, and those who once believed themselves untouchable will be remembered only by the ruin they leave behind."
A brief pause followed.
"As it is written," he said at last, "there will be a cry across Avalon such as has never been heard before, nor ever will be again."
As Bran stepped forward, his stride slowed, then stilled, his gaze drawn downward to the girl still crumpled upon the floor. For a brief moment, the steel that had defined his presence seemed to soften, the tension in his shoulders easing as something quieter, more human, surfaced beneath it. A gentle smile touched his lips as he crouched, extending a gloved hand toward her.
"Come," he said in a way that carried reassurance rather than command. "You're safe now." A faint pause followed, as though he meant the next words with a weight that went beyond the moment itself. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again."
The girl hesitated only for a heartbeat before reaching out, her trembling fingers brushing against his glove before closing around it, and as he helped her to her feet, her gaze flickered briefly toward the ruin that had once been her master, the sight lingering just long enough for the reality of it to settle before it shattered whatever composure she had left. Her breath broke, then came the tears, sudden and unstoppable, as she collapsed into him, arms wrapping tightly around his waist, her face pressed into his chest as sobs tore free in raw, unrestrained waves.
She clung to him with a desperation that spoke of everything she had endured, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as though afraid he might vanish if she let go.
Bran said nothing at first, simply resting a hand against the back of her head, his fingers moving gently through her hair in a quiet attempt to ground her. "It's alright," he murmured after a moment. "Come now, let's get you somewhere warm. A proper meal, a bed." A faint breath escaped him, the barest hint of something lighter returning. "I know I could use both myself."
He guided her toward the entrance, unhurried, allowing her to remain close as they moved, her grip never loosening.
Behind them, Frank slid his blade back into its sheath and followed at a measured pace, his presence steady, watchful.
"Reagen!"
The call cut through the space, sharp enough to halt him mid-step. Frank paused, turning his head just enough to glance back over his shoulder at Mycellus, who remained seated amidst the wreckage, fury warring with something far less composed beneath it.
"To think you'd align yourself with this… this… madman!" Mycellus spat, though the edge of a smirk betrayed the strain beneath his composure. "Then again, I suppose it's fitting for a man shaped by Overdeath. I always suspected his particular brand of brutality would leave its mark on you." He scoffed, drawing himself up despite the scene around him. "Mark my words, Reagen, you may walk away from this tonight victorious, but this display will not go unanswered. We will return this humiliation to you and that boy tenfold."
Frank's expression did not change, though a quiet breath left him before he spoke.
"You do what you think you gotta do, Peverell," he said. "But I'll tell you this much. I've spent years watching you Entitled bastards take whatever you want, hurt whoever you want, and walk away clean every single time." A faint, humorless chuckle followed. "Back when I was a cadet, all I could do was stand there, grit my teeth, and let it happen."
He shook his head slightly, as though the memory itself had worn thin. "Wilhelm used to say the same thing. More than once, I saw him come close to putting a blade through one of you. And honestly?" Frank's gaze flicked briefly toward the carnage before returning. "If he were here right now, I reckon he'd be celebrating. Might even buy us a round, just for the satisfaction of seeing that pig finally get what was coming to him."
Then he turned fully, facing Mycellus at last, his eyes darkening just enough to strip away the last trace of levity.
"As for me," he continued, "watching an inbred, prissy little cockatoo like you realize, even for a second, that today might've been your last day breathing?" A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "That's about as satisfying as it gets."
Mycellus' face twisted, anger flaring. "Reagen, you—"
"Yeah, yeah, sticks and stones, and all that," Frank cut in, lifting a hand slightly as though brushing the words aside. "Kid's right, though. I'm cold, I'm hungry, and I'm too damn old to stand around listening to you kicking and screaming all night." He tilted his head, studying him for a brief moment. "I'm sure that brain of yours is already working overtime, figuring out how you're gonna get even."
His gaze shifted, and only then did Mycellus notice them.
Figures, silent and unmoving, emerging from the edges of shadow where moments ago there had been nothing, their presence subtle yet undeniable, eyes fixed squarely upon him. The realization hit all at once, a quiet breath escaping him as he understood just how surrounded he truly was.
"But if you're gonna come for us," Frank said, the weight of it settling into the space between them, "you better make damn sure you bring everything you've got."
He gestured lightly toward the devastation behind the man.
"Otherwise… you'll end up just like them."
Then, with a casual lift of his hand in something resembling a salute, Frank turned away. "Be seeing you, peckerwood."
He moved toward the exit, falling into step behind Bran as the shadows receded just as quietly as they had appeared, leaving no trace behind them.
Only silence remained.
And the ruin of everything that had just unfolded.
****
Frank stepped out onto the verandah, the cold meeting him at once, sharp and unrelenting as it bit into his cheeks and pulled the warmth from his breath, leaving it to curl into pale mist before him. Beyond the railing, the world stretched wide and silent beneath a blanket of snow, the distant lights of Hallstatt glowing softly against the dark, a quiet contrast to the violence that had just unfolded behind them.
At the head of the steps, Bran stood still, his attention fixed on the girl as she was gently guided away, now wrapped in a thick blanket that swallowed her slight frame. The men escorting her moved with quiet efficiency, their dark uniforms marked with the sigil of the Inquisition, a presence that carried both authority and finality.
She paused just before stepping into the waiting car, glancing back over her shoulder, her expression fragile yet unmistakable in its gratitude. Bran returned the look with a small wave, a quiet acknowledgment that needed no words, before she disappeared inside and the door shut behind her.
By the time Frank reached his side, the crossbow was gone, dismissed as though it had never been there at all, though he knew better than to believe the boy was ever truly unarmed, not with those two ravens lingering just beyond sight.
His boots tapped softly against the wood as he came to a stop beside him, folding his arms as his gaze lingered on the departing vehicle.
"Hell of a way to make a statement," Frank said. "Word of this gets back to the House of Lords, and you'll have every Entitled from here to the coastline shittin' bricks over it."
Bran's lips curved faintly, though there was little warmth in it, his eyes remaining fixed on the road as the car began to pull away. "I should hope so," he replied, though the weight behind his words shifted, his expression darkening with thought. "Though, truth be told, hunting nobles is not what occupies my mind at present."
Frank glanced at him, one brow lifting slightly. "This about what those two were saying?" he asked. "Caerleon?"
Bran gave a small nod, his fingers coming to rest against the snow-dusted banister, tapping lightly as he considered it. "If there is even a fraction of truth in it, then we are looking at something far more intricate than a simple election," he said, his tone measured. "Complications layered upon complications, each one more insidious than the last." A faint breath left him. "Though I suppose that is the nature of such things."
"I don't like it," Frank said as his jaw tightened, the weight of it sitting heavy in his chest. "I've never been one to stick my nose into elections or politics. Got more than enough of that crap back at the Tower as it is. Life's already hard enough without finding yourself dragged into some game where you're nothing more than a piece on a board you never asked to be part of in the first place."
"Like it or not," Bran replied, inclining his head slightly, "we are all players in it. The only distinction lies in whether we choose to engage or allow ourselves to be moved." His gaze drifted across the frozen expanse, thoughtful rather than distant. "It is neither fair nor merciful, but reality has never claimed to be either. When a pillar of power collapses, something invariably rises to take its place, and more often than not, it does so burdened with its own designs, its own ambitions. Whether those ambitions prove beneficial or ruinous to those caught in their wake remains to be seen."
Frank let out a slow breath, dragging a hand across his face before rubbing at his temple as though trying to ease the pressure building behind it. "Too many moving parts," he muttered. "Old blood, new blood, fresh faces all circling the same prize, and now we've got these Highborn bastards working angles behind the scenes." He gave a tired shake of his head. "Son of a bitch. I swear, I'm getting too damn old for this."
A quiet chuckle escaped Bran, softer than the moment perhaps deserved. "Curious," he said, almost to himself, "I am but half your age, and yet I find myself entertaining the same sentiment." His hand brushed thoughtfully along his chin. "Perhaps I might follow in my grandfather's footsteps and retire to something far less contentious. Perhaps implore him to impart his rather colorful knowledge on beekeeping."
Frank snorted under his breath, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself. "Yeah," he said, shaking his head. "I'll believe that when I see it."
He then let out a quiet exhale, his gaze drifting once more to the road where the car carrying the girl had begun to disappear into the distance. "Poor kid. I know that town Meachum tore through. Know exactly what he did to her family." He shook his head, a quiet scoff slipping through. "Bastard had it coming, and if I've got one regret, it's that I only got to watch it happen once."
Bran tilted his head, a faint, knowing smirk touching his lips. "Enjoying yourself, are we?"
Frank shot him a sidelong look, unimpressed. "Don't go ruining it for me," he replied, though there was a dry edge of humor beneath it.
A soft chuckle escaped Bran before the moment settled again, quieter now, heavier.
"You do realize getting that collar off her is going to be a nightmare," Frank added after a beat. "That sort of thing doesn't exactly fall under our jurisdiction."
"Indeed," Bran said, pushing his glasses up slightly as his gaze turned thoughtful once more. "However, men like Meachum rarely operate without support. Somewhere within the Authority, there will be those who enabled this, who forged the papers, who turned a blind eye for the right price." His eyes sharpened. "And when one begins to pull at such threads, they have a tendency to unravel rather quickly."
"The good ole' Overdeath special." Frank's mouth curved faintly. "We find the right one, squeeze a little, and let the rest fall apart."
"Precisely," Bran replied. "Once the truth is laid bare, overturning her status becomes a matter of procedure rather than resistance. For all their corruption, even the Guild clings to the structure of law."
Frank gave a slow nod, the motion carrying a weight of certainty rather than agreement alone. "Guess that goes on the list, then," he said, a smirk settling in, edged with something far less forgiving than humor. "Ain't a shred of sympathy in me for any bastard lining Meachum's pockets. Agents who twist the Ius Servitium for their own gain know exactly what's coming when it turns on 'em, and you know how I feel about that. Every time some Authority prick ends up with a collar of their own, I pour a drink and make a night of it."
"That certainly makes two of us," Bran agreed.
As his attention drifted toward the horizon, his eyes following the last fading trace of the departing car until it vanished entirely into the dark, leaving only the quiet of the snow and the distant glow of the town behind.
"Perhaps sooner rather than later," he said. "There are still matters left unresolved, and I would much prefer to see them dealt with before they are given the opportunity to entrench themselves further."
Frank tilted his head slightly, studying him. "And Caerleon?"
"One step at a time," Bran replied. "For now, we allow them the comfort of believing themselves secure, nestled in their little illusions of safety, while we dismantle the foundation beneath them piece by piece. Very much like Burgess and those who followed him do not simply yield when pressed, but they do break, and when they do, they tend to be rather… forthcoming."
There was a shift in his gaze then, something quieter, more certain.
"As for Caerleon," he continued, turning back to Frank, "I find myself less concerned than I perhaps ought to be." The faintest trace of a smile touching his lips. "I believe it rests in capable hands, don't you?"
Frank's smirk deepened as he adjusted his stance against the cold, rolling his shoulders once as he cast a brief glance back toward the cabin before facing forward again. "Yeah," he said, almost to himself, "when you put it like that… I'd say you're probably right."
Bran let the moment settle before the calm resolve returned fully to his expression.
"For now," he said, "we move on."
Frank gave a short nod, firm and ready. "Lead the way."