A beat passed.
None of the four moved, their gazes locked like drawn blades. Every fiber of their being wound tight as wire. The air seemed to chill, as if the silence itself were holding its breath. Even the bartender had frozen mid-polish, the crystal tumbler hovering just inches from the cloth.
Bran and Arthur both hovered near the hilts of their wands, barely perceptible. Artoria's fingers lingered just short of the pommel of her greatsword. And for Laxus's, a soft voltaic crackle hummed at the tip of his fingers—ready.
Then—
"Before I answer that, Mister Ravenclaw," Arthur said at last, his easy smirk at odds with the flint in his eyes, "I need to know something—where do your allegiances truly lie?"
Bran inhaled, steady and unshaken. "I have always been loyal to the Tower," he said plainly. "To what it stands for—not what it's become." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his lime-green gaze gleaming. "I am a Ravenclaw. Justice is in my blood. And I'll not waver from it."
Artoria's eyes flicked to Laxus. "Even if justice means burning it all to the ground?"
Laxus gave a slow grin, raising his tankard without drinking. "A wise man once told me," he drawled, "that if you want to build a new world, you've got to set fire to the old one." His grip on the handle tightened. "And you know me—I've never met a bonfire I didn't like."
That broke the tension.
Arthur snorted. Then he laughed—openly, shoulders shaking. "Laxus, you haven't changed a bit," he said between chuckles. "You and Bran. Always the bloody idealists."
Artoria rolled her eyes, arms folding again as a hint of a smirk tugged at her mouth. Bran exhaled, his own lips quirking. Laxus simply raised an eyebrow and drank.
Arthur leaned back into his seat. "Very well. But I'll warn you now—what we found may not be airtight. Some of it's hearsay. Whispers, half-buried records, quiet corpses." His smile faded. "But what we do have… it's damning."
Artoria's eyes darkened. "And if it's true, it doesn't just implicate Lamar Burgess and his little cabal of lapdogs." She paused. "It tears at the foundation of the Clock Tower itself."
"Information worth killing for," Arthur said coldly, the warmth drained from his tone. "And if the rumors are true—he already has."
Bran's brow creased. He caught the implication but held back—just long enough for Laxus to lean in, his voice low.
"Let me guess," he muttered. "This has something to do with the Dah'tan Incident?"
Arthur gave a humorless laugh. "Not something, Laxus. Everything." He rested his elbows on the table, fingers interlocked. "Let's not forget—that little catastrophe is what cleared the way to the Director's chair. Personally, I find it almost admirable. Efficient, even."
He lifted his brows. "Survive a disaster of biblical scale, bury your only rival in the rubble, and come out the hero with the top seat? Bloody hell—man's a mastermind."
"But not infallible," Artoria cut in, leaning forward, hands clasped. "In his arrogance, he left loose ends. Spent the next decade tying them off—quietly. That's what his dogs are for. Intimidation. Assassination. Cover-ups." Her gaze flicked to her brother. "But not all the ends stayed tied."
"Loose ends?" Bran's gaze narrowed. "You'll have to forgive me, but I'm struggling to see the connection. The fallout was the result of a terrorist attack and the Tower's failure to contain it. How exactly do 'loose ends' fit into that?"
"Patience, Ravenclaw, we're getting there." Arthur said with a casual wave of his hand. "Anyway, we went East. Beyond the quarantine. To what's left of Dah'tan."
Bran stiffened. "That area's off limits. By Council decree."
"To most, yes," Artoria said. "But not to us."
"It was a wasteland," Arthur continued. "The air's still thick with residual magic. But a few survivors linger near the rim—outcasts, vagrants, bottom-feeders. We found a shanty town half-collapsed into the sand. Among them, a wreck of a man. Burned, blind in one eye, but with a tongue loose enough after four bottles of Glenmort."
Artoria's expression turned steely. "And after I pressed him—he talked."
Laxus's gaze sharpened. "What did he say?"
Artoria exchanged a glance with Arthur. "Take it as you will. Hearsay, maybe. But he claimed the men involved weren't terrorists at all." She paused. "They were mercenaries. Hired guns."
Bran went still. "Mercenaries?"
Laxus's grip on his tankard tightened. "Hired by who?"
Arthur didn't blink. "By an Auror. A high-ranking one. Name withheld, of course. But someone with enough clearance and clout to gain access to the facility."
Both Bran and Laxus froze.
"You're not suggesting—" Bran began.
"—that Lamar freaking Burgess hired the men who caused the Overdrive?" Laxus finished, eyes narrowing.
Arthur's expression darkened, his smirk fading into a hard line.
"We're not suggesting," he said. "We're telling you. There's enough smoke around this man to choke a dragon. And if we're right… then Lamar Burgess didn't just benefit from the Dah'tan tragedy." He leaned forward.
"He engineered it."
"Hold up—hold the hell up!" Laxus shot upright, hands thrown into the air. "You're telling me the man who sits at the top of the damned Tower—the guy meant to uphold truth, justice, and the very foundation of Avalon—plotted the deaths of thousands just to steal a damn chair?!"
"This is not just bold, Arthur," Bran added, unmistakably shaken. "It's borderline lunacy. The weight of that kind of accusation… it's not something to be thrown around lightly."
"Oh, we're quite aware," Arthur replied. "And yes—we lack solid, material evidence. No documents. No signed orders. Just a thread pulled long enough to unravel the whole bloody cloak."
"And the rantings of a half-soused wreck in a shack aren't exactly what one would call admissible," Artoria added sharply.
"Then how, in Hecate's name, did the Council agree to appoint a Regent?" Bran demanded.
Arthur smirk returned. "Simple. We followed the breadcrumbs."
"We began reviewing every case Lamar and his inner circle had touched," Artoria continued, folding her hands on the table. "It didn't take long before we saw the pattern."
Arthur chimed in, "Anyone even remotely connected to Dah'tan—witnesses, colleagues, even passersby—began to vanish. Others were charged with crimes that made no sense. And the rest?"
"They tripped," Artoria said coldly. "Out of windows. Off bridges. Onto swords."
Bran's breath caught in his throat.
"You remember the unrest in Camelot? The so-called separatist faction stirring chaos years ago?" Arthur asked.
"I was a boy, but yes—riots, bombings, near civil war," Bran replied.
"And you remember the task force Lamar created in response?" Artoria asked. "Norsefire."
"Bastards," Laxus scoffed. "Out of control, jackbooted thugs in black armor. If they weren't torching homes for 'harboring terrorists,' they were knocking the teeth outta anyone who so much as looked at them sideways. Yeah, I've heard of 'em. Dad used to curse their name like it was a bloody prayer."
Arthur chuckled darkly. "Yes, his personal stormtroopers. The public heard they 'restored order' in the capital. What they didn't hear was who got swept up in the crackdown."
"Let me guess," Laxus said, eyes narrowing. "People on Lamar's shit list."
"Give the man a prize," Arthur said with a dry smile, gesturing loosely. "Here's another one for the pile. Three guesses who once led Norsefire. I'll give you a hint—he's a man for whom the ends always justify the means."
Bran's brow furrowed. "You aren't saying…"
"The Sheriff of Caerleon himself. George Hartshorne." Artoria let it sink in. "Formerly Commander Hartshorne. Lamar's most loyal hound—and his oldest friend."
Bran slumped back into his seat, color draining from his face. The weight of the revelation knocked the wind from him.
Laxus gave a low whistle, setting his tankard down. "Alright… earlier, you said Lamar's killed to keep this buried. You saying someone actually found proof?"
Arthur nodded. "Not only found it—he tried to expose it."
He fixed his gaze on Bran. "And you know the case, Adjudicator. Intimately."
Bran's breath caught. His eyes widened. "No… it can't be—"
"The Valerian Case," Artoria confirmed. "Keenah Se'lai uncovered fragments of the truth. Testimonies. Records. He was building a case. And just before he could submit it… he and his entire family were murdered."
"And the one left holding the blade…" Arthur finished, "was Asriel Valerian."
Laxus leaned forward, stunned. "That bastard really set him up."
Bran dropped his head into his hands, fingers twisting through his hair. "By the Gods… I've been such a fool."
"Don't blame yourself," Arthur said gently. "Lamar's web has held strong for twenty bloody years. Even our father couldn't see through it. But now…" he glanced to his sister.
"We still don't have the dagger," Artoria said, "but we've enough to rattle the foundations. Enough to shake the Council's confidence. Especially when you consider every single Nemesis victim was tied to high-profile Tower trials."
"Victims," Arthur added, "who were all connected to Lamar's greatest achievements… and his deepest secrets."
Bran looked up, his gaze sharpening, the doubt now replaced with resolve.
"I want to meet this Regent," he said firmly. "I need to speak with him—face to face. Can you arrange that?"
Arthur smirked, tilting his head. "We can do you one better, actually. How does lunch sound?"
"Lunch?" Laxus raised an eyebrow. "This Regent got a taste for drama or something?"
"He's got a taste for trout. And theatrics." Arthur chuckled. "That said, it'll be a week or two before you get your audience. He's halfway across the continent at the moment. Busy man, that one."
He tilted his head toward Bran and Laxus.
"Gives you two a bit more time to tidy up your little scrapbook of evidence, doesn't it?"
Laxus finished his beer with a clink, wiping his mouth. "This Regent of yours got a name?"
Artoria gave a soft laugh under her breath. "Macon Duchannes."
Both Bran and Laxus froze.
"Wait—Duchannes? As in Agatha Duchannes?" Laxus asked. "Our Transfigurations professor?"
Arthur grinned. "Her grandson, yes. Hilarious, isn't it? Considering the man's pushing two hundred."
"He doesn't look it," Artoria added. "He's… difficult to read. Elusive. But nobles, councilmen, even the royal household—everyone knows the name Macon Duchannes."
"And more importantly," Arthur said, "they listen to it."
Artoria's tone shifted, quieter but sure. "And I have a feeling he'll be very interested in what you have to say."
Bran gave a single nod. His mind was a storm of revelations and unanswered questions, but his conviction was set. This path—murky as it was—had to be walked.
For Rowena.
For Godric.
For himself.
And for everything the Tower claimed to stand for.
****
Godric groaned, his body stirring as the world slowly began to come into focus. A dull ringing faded from his ears, replaced by the low hum of the city. His vision sharpened, though a pulsing throb hammered behind his temple. He grit his teeth. He'd felt worse—too many brawls back at the Congregation to count. The kind of pain you got used to. But this was different.
He tried to move—only to hear the clink of metal. Heavy chains bound his torso, arms pulled tight against a brick pillar. He strained, muscles tense, but the restraints didn't budge. Cold iron. Reinforced.
His crimson eyes scanned his surroundings. A rooftop. Flat, wide. The glow of Caerleon's underbelly bled across the skyline. Steam hissed from vents around him, rising in shimmering whorls that scattered like stardust into the night. The rain had stopped, though the air still smelled of it. Wet stone. Rusted metal. A thin layer of gritty sand clung to his fingertips.
Then he saw it.
The Sword of Damocles—planted into the rooftop like a trophy. The blackened claymore, pulsing faintly with fire-veined embers. Waiting.
A swirl of smoke and glowing embers ignited before him—and from it, Asriel stepped through.
"Took you long enough," Asriel said, almost amused. He gestured lazily at the chains with two fingers. "Apologies for the décor. Had to be sure you wouldn't do anything reckless."
Godric snarled. "Where the hell am I? What the hell do you want from me?"
"With you? Not much." Asriel extended a hand, and in a plume of smoke, Godric's own sword appeared in his grasp. The scabbard—deep royal blue and gold—gleamed beneath the rooftop lights. "But this? Oh, I want plenty."
Godric jerked forward against the chains. "Give that back!"
Asriel ignored the demand, turning the sword in his hands, examining it with something bordering on reverence.
"It's beautiful," he said softly. "Masterwork steel. Perfect weight. The kind of craftsmanship men would kill for." His thumb brushed the edge of the scabbard. "And trust me—I've killed for less."
His eyes flicked up to Godric. "Where'd you get it?"
Godric's gaze narrowed. "None of your godsdamned business."
Asriel grinned. "You didn't forge it. Hands are too clean for a blacksmith. You didn't buy it—no offence, but you don't exactly scream old money. And you're no thief. Not with that holier-than-thou attitude."
He stepped closer.
"So that leaves only one option: it was a gift."
Godric's shoulders sank. His glare faltered.
"From my uncle," he muttered.
Asriel nodded. "Of course it was." He tilted the blade, letting it catch the light. "Did he tell you where he got it?"
"Said it came from a legendary smith."
Asriel barked a short, cold laugh. "Please. I can smell that farce from a mile off."
"You don't know anything about him!" Godric growled, thrashing against the chains.
"I know he lied," Asriel said flatly. "Not necessarily out of malice. Maybe because he doesn't know. Or maybe because he does."
He gripped the hilt and tried to draw the blade—and stopped. A flicker of surprise crossed his face as he tugged again. Nothing. The sword refused him.
Godric's eyes widened.
"You've never seen anyone else draw it, have you?" Asriel asked, raising an eyebrow.
The silence said everything.
"No ordinary blade does that," Asriel said, stepping back. His hand released the sword. "Trust me—I know a rare sword when I see one."
He nodded toward his own claymore, still buried in the rooftop, its black steel alive with flickering veins of crimson flame.
"Case in point."
Asriel's amber gaze locked on him, steady and unreadable. "There's only one sword in history said to answer solely to its wielder," he said calmly. "A blade of immense power. Even greater than the Sword of Damocles."
He tilted his head slightly.
"You know its name. Everyone does. Caliburn. The sword of King Uther Pendragon."
Godric scoffed, bitter laughter breaking from his lips. "Right," he said dryly. "Next you'll be telling me I'm the bloody reincarnation of the king himself." He gave the chains a tug, face tight with contempt.
"Look at me, Valerian. Do I look like a Pendragon to you? My sword's just that—a sword. Well-forged, yes. But no legend. No prophecy. No destiny."
"Is that so?" Asriel walked over and leaned the blade gently against a nearby vent. "I can't draw it, fine, I'll pass it off as some form of enchantment, but how about you explain what happened back at the Stelios."
Godric froze.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered.
"Oh, cut the act," Asriel snapped, stepping closer. "You saw it. Don't pretend you didn't. When our swords clashed—it tore something open between us. A window. A bridge."
His eyes narrowed. "I saw your memories. And you saw mine."
Godric's jaw clenched, breath shallow. "You're mad."
"Am I?" Asriel folded his arms. "Then, riddle me this…"
He leaned in slightly. "Who's Raine?"
Godric went still. His breath caught. His blood turned cold. Asriel didn't need to say anything more. He'd struck something far deeper than steel ever could.
"Pretty little thing, isn't she?" Asriel mused. "Snowy hair… golden eyes. I've seen many therians in my time, but never one as striking as her."
He paused, studying Godric closely.
"It came in fragments—scattered, but clear enough. She was your betrothed. And as a therian, you were her mate."
"She was more than that," Godric ground out, his jaw tight. "She was my everything."
Asriel's expression shifted, softening. "So was my Tala."
Godric glanced up, surprised to find no mockery in the man's face—only memory, etched in pain.
"She was my world," Asriel continued. "My life. She always believed she didn't deserve me… but I saw in her what she saw in me. Two fractured souls clinging to each other, trying to find meaning in a world that only ever showed us cruelty."
He looked skyward, blinking once, slowly. Then lowered his gaze again.
"They took her from me. Burgess. Hartshorne. The Tower. They snuffed her out, pinned her death on me, and cast me out to die with it around my neck."
He crouched, bringing himself eye-level with Godric.
"I don't imagine your Raine met the same fate," he said. "But she was taken from you all the same… wasn't she?"
Godric lowered his gaze. The words caught in his throat. He didn't need to speak them—the weight of that night bore down on him like stone. The pavilion, the rain, Raine's tear-streaked face. Her voice, pleading. Her light dimming as Bran whispered the spell and carried her away, as if she were a burden instead of a bond. His jaw tightened. Tears welled, spilling onto his lap.
"That pain," Asriel murmured, watching him closely. "That sorrow that sits in your chest like a blade left in the wound—I know it far too well." His words rougher now. "It eats at you. You question yourself. Replay every moment. Every word. You wonder if there was a better choice. If you could've been stronger. Smarter. Faster."
His fingers curled into a fist. "And in time, that pain curdles. Into anger. Into hatred. First at yourself. Then at them. The ones who stole it all. And suddenly, that flame you've kept buried inside isn't quiet anymore. It demands to be fed."
Godric's voice broke the silence, low and bitter. "They made it clear we couldn't be together. They told me I had a choice." He looked up, his crimson eyes sharp with fury. "But the choice they gave me? They might as well have handed me a sword and told me to end her myself."
Asriel gave a slow shrug. "Rules… and consequences," he said. "Something Burgess and his lot have long forgotten. The Tower still writes the laws, but they don't bleed for them. They don't suffer by them. And that's the flaw. They wield justice… without ever facing it."
"Look around you, Gryffindor. This fleeting peace, this illusion of freedom—the Tower wants you to believe it's theirs to give," Asriel continued. "Every reel on the billboards, every screen flashing their message, every poster plastered across the brick—it's not just propaganda. It's a reminder. A warning. They want every man, woman, and child to remember how close we came to ruin. And more than that, they want us to believe we need them to keep the darkness at bay."
He rose to his feet, the wind catching his cloak, the faint shimmer of the city dancing in his eyes. "Burgess gave his entire life to the Tower," he said. "Every brick laid, every body turned to mortar, every law twisted to raise the pillar higher. The blood greased the wheels, and Burgess kept them turning. The Tower is his cathedral. His legacy. He took Tala from me. So now, I'll take everything from him."
Godric scoffed, shaking his head. "And what then? You kill the Director, and they'll just put another bastard in the chair. Maybe worse."
Asriel turned to him, eyes burning amber. "You're right. Just like the gallant tale of Hercules and the hydra—cut off one head, another takes its place. Even the Sword of Damocles won't keep up with them for long." He leaned in. "But I'm not looking to sever the head. I'm looking to burn the serpent whole. Reduce it to ash. Bury it in salt."
A smirk tugged at the edge of his lips. "And when I'm done, there won't be a Tower left to rebuild. It'll be a stain. A curse whispered through the ages. And Lamar Burgess? He'll be a name spat with venom, damned and forgotten."
Godric's eyes flickered wide at the weight of his words.
Asriel turned, his fingers curling around the hilt of his claymore. With a single pull, he freed the blackened blade from the ground and slung it over his back.
"War is coming, Gryffindor. The attack at the Stelios was only the first domino. Fear will grip the city. And when it does, Burgess will do what he always does—tighten his fist. And when that time comes…" He glanced over his shoulder, a grim glint in his eye. "Even you, oh noble Lion of Ignis, will have to pick a side."
"As for that sword of yours, you need to start asking the right questions. What is it? Where did it come from? Why did it choose you?" Asriel paused. "And most importantly—why do you wield it?"
He vanished in a swirl of blackened smoke and burning cinders.
With a soft clink, the chains binding Godric snapped loose. He looked down, then forward—but didn't move. The words echoed, each one twisting deeper into his chest.
And when I'm done, there won't be a Tower left to rebuild.
Cryptic as Asriel had been, there was truth beneath it. Godric could feel it—something was coming to Caerleon. A storm. One born of fear, control, and desperation. Burgess was a man buried beneath his sins, and men like that… they don't give up power. They drown in it—and drag the world down with them.
Godric's jaw tightened.
Asriel was right.
It was time to choose.
****
Pablo slammed the trunk of the car shut with a grunt, tugging his beret down tighter as rainwater trickled from the brim. "Maledizione," he muttered under his breath, cursing the ceaseless rain that had plagued Caerleon all week. Spring showers weren't anything new—he'd lived his whole life in this city—but knowing didn't make it any less miserable.
His workers scurried through the downpour, carting boxes from the van into the back of the restaurant as quickly as they could manage. Pablo pulled his coat closer around his round frame, rubbing his palms together to beat back the creeping cold in his bones.
"Pablo!" Edda called, ducking under the awning with a box in her arms. "Did you get the sage like I asked?" she continued in rapid Italian.
"Ah, amore mio, you know the sage won't arrive until tomorrow." Pablo threw his hands into the air. "The storm grounded the airships. Everything's delayed!"
Edda groaned, switching back to their mother tongue in a short, heated exchange. The words weren't harsh—just familiar, exasperated frustration shared between two people who'd run a kitchen together longer than most marriages lasted.
The neon lights from the street cast long shadows into the alley, glinting off the wet pavement in hues of pink and cobalt. Pablo checked his watch, eyes widening. "Madonna… it's later than I thought." His shoulders sagged. There was still prep to be done before morning.
Just as he turned to retreat through the back door, a low groan cut through the rain.
He paused, squinting toward the far end of the alleyway. There—barely visible in the shimmer of streetlight—was a figure. Stocky, hunched. A dwarf, judging by the silhouette. One hand braced against the wall as he staggered forward, cloak clinging to him like wet paper.
Their eyes met for a brief second. Then the figure collapsed face-first into the puddles.
"Mamma mia!" Pablo rushed forward, splashing through the water as he dropped to his knees beside the fallen man. "Signore, signore, can you hear me?" he asked, giving the dwarf a gentle shake.
"What's going on?" Edda appeared at his side; the box forgotten in her arms. Her eyes widened. "Madre di Dio, is he dead?"
"No, no, he's breathing," Pablo said quickly, leaning in. He pressed a hand to the man's back—warm. Too warm. When he pulled away, his palm was streaked with thick, black blood, dark as oil. "Sangue… but not like any I've seen."
A distant wail of sirens echoed from the street beyond.
Pablo looked up at Edda, urgency flaring in his eyes.
"I'll get the boys," she said without hesitation. "We bring him inside."
She turned and sprinted back into the restaurant.
Pablo looked down at the dwarf again, muttering under his breath. "Dio ci aiuti. You're safe now, signore. We take care of you, eh? You'll be alright."
He placed a steadying hand on the dwarf's shoulder, as the sound of boots slapping wet pavement grew louder in the distance.