Captain Langston stepped out of the room, the door closing behind him with a muted click. For a fleeting moment before it shut, the corridor was pierced by a woman's scream—raw, primal, the kind that came from a soul just beginning to comprehend unbearable loss. It echoed down the sterile hall, rattling the silence like a bell of mourning, before it was swallowed again by the hush.
He stood motionless, letting the stillness wash over him. The sting on his cheek was sharp, the woman's palm having struck with the weight of grief. He didn't flinch. He'd taken worse—on the battlefield, in back alleys, in riots where chaos ruled—but nothing left a mark quite like the open-handed fury of a mother who had just lost her only child.
Langston exhaled slowly, his breath catching in his throat. Iris had been everything to them. Their firstborn. Their miracle. Their entire world, wrapped in soft smiles and bright promise. And now, she was gone. Another name on a wall. Another soul snuffed out by a war that had long stopped pretending to be just.
He hadn't come here expecting forgiveness. After all these years, he'd stopped expecting anything at all. Delivering news like this was a burden he carried often, a cruel rite of passage for those who wore the uniform long enough. And yet, with every door he stepped through, with every life he watched collapse in front of him, it never got easier. It wasn't supposed to.
The Captain leaned against the navy-blue wall of the corridor, its smooth surface cold through his coat. Overhead, the crystal sconces hummed faintly, casting halos of soft amber light against the polished floor. He rubbed his temple with calloused fingers, eyes shut tight, willing the noise in his mind to quiet. But it didn't. It never did.
He had chosen this life. That was the truth of it. Not out of pride or duty, but because he knew no other. He had stood beneath banners, answered orders, watched friends die. He had watched good men break—and worse men thrive. And somewhere in the middle of it all, he had made a vow: no attachments. No children to weep over. No wife to bury him. No one to carry his name when the last light left his eyes.
There was no room for softness in men like him.
Langston opened his eyes. His thoughts wandered to the reports. The attack at the Stelios still smoldered in the news. The string of murders. Executions, really—targeted and brutal. Nemesis had made their move. And while he had no tears to shed for Callahan or Kaltz, their deaths were an omen. A sign that the storm had truly arrived. That the veil of peace was slipping.
What unsettled him more than anything, though, wasn't the death toll. It was Lamar. The old bastard had gone quiet. And when Lamar Burgess went quiet, something catastrophic always followed. Langston had served under him long enough to know the signs. The tautness in the air. The whispers behind doors. The tension rising like steam from a pot ready to boil over.
And now, with Burgess cornered, bleeding power like a wounded beast, Langston felt it again—that familiar dread rising in his chest. A low thrum beneath the skin.
He pushed off the wall, ran a hand through his graying hair, and straightened his coat. There was no time to grieve. Not yet.
"Looks like she got you good." Langston shifted his gaze to Frank, who halted just a step shy of the doorway. The man offered a dry, rueful chuckle.
"All things considered, you got off easy," Frank said. "Last time I gave a family bad news, the bloke chucked boiling coffee in my face." He gave a small shrug. "Kid was his only son. Just graduated the academy. Hell, I've watched them bury more kids than I care to count—and may the Gods strike me down before I ever let Erin get within ten miles of the Tower."
Langston mirrored his bitter smile, if only faintly. "When was the last time you spoke to her?"
"Few months back." Frank's shoulders sank as he leaned against the frame. "We don't exactly have the picture-perfect bond. I was never exactly father of the year—and my ex? Well, at least we're civil these days."
He let out a slow breath. "She takes after her mum, thank the Gods. But the mule-headedness? That's all me."
Langston gave a quiet chuckle. "And that, my friend, is exactly why I stayed single. Took one look at Wilhelm, then you, and figured the whole 'family man' gig wasn't in the cards."
Frank shook his head with a tired smirk. "Don't get me wrong. I love Erin. She's my world. I'd walk through fire for her. But if I had the chance to start over…" His words trailed off for a beat. "Maybe I'd try to be a better dad, rather than a better soldier."
He glanced at Langston, a flicker of regret in his eyes. "Wilhelm used to say you couldn't be both. I think he was right."
"I don't blame you," Langston said quietly. "Everyone saw the legendary Wilhelm Reinhardt for the man they wanted him to be. A paragon. An unshakable titan. The great Overdeath—hero of the Tower. Every recruit dreamed of being like him. Hell, I know I did."
His gaze drifted toward Frank.
"But only a handful of us ever saw past the stories. Past the medals and speeches. We saw the man beneath it all—exhausted, broken. He gave everything to the Tower… and in the process, everything else around him crumbled."
Langston drew a breath. "I remember him downing half a bottle with the boys, tears in his eyes, crying about how much his daughter hated him. Could barely string a sentence together some nights. He wasn't a hero. He was just a man trying to hold the pieces together."
Frank leaned back against the wall, the silence settling like dust between them. "Yeah," he murmured, "I hear you."
Langston gave a quiet, hollow chuckle. "Feels like we're all just relics now. Rusted out, worn thin. Old dogs still barking into the dark." He closed his eyes. "I'm tired, Frank. Tired in a way I don't know how to fix."
Frank nodded slowly; the weight mirrored in his eyes. "Me too, friend. Me too."
It was then that the sound hit—heavy boots, dozens of them, marching in unison. A deep, steady thunder that rolled through the corridor, unmistakable and impossible to ignore. It didn't come from within the precinct, but from beyond the thick pane of glass overlooking the street.
Langston's head snapped toward the window. He and Frank exchanged a look—no words, just understanding. Without a moment's hesitation, they moved. Their boots struck the marble floor in quick, sharp rhythm as they made their way down the hall, turned the corner, and descended the stairwell. Guardians and staff watched them go, sensing the shift in atmosphere but too unsure to follow.
They burst through the precinct's main hall, dodging concerned glances and startled citizens. The doors groaned open beneath their weight, the cold air rushing in to greet them as they stepped outside.
And then they stopped.
Dozens of figures stood in formation, clad head to toe in matte black uniforms. Lines of red ran like arteries down their sleeves and along their sides. Thick body armor covered their frames, the kind reserved for siege deployment or riot suppression. Each wore the same mask: blank white visors shaped like skulls, featureless and inhuman. Their gloves flexed at their sides. Swords hung at their hips.
But it was the insignia that stopped Langston cold. A black badge. Marked with a red T-shaped cross.
The color drained from his face.
Frank's breath caught. "No…" he whispered.
Langston's jaw tightened. "It can't be."
But it was. The emblem was unmistakable. A ghost dragged from the grave. A memory neither of them ever wanted resurrected. And at the head of the formation stood Sheriff Hartshorne, arms crossed, black-clad like the rest.
Langston stormed down the precinct steps, his boots slamming against the cobblestone with every stride. "Hartshorne!" he barked. "What the hell is this?!"
The Sheriff turned, a grin crawling across his weathered face. "Captain Langston. Late to the show—as always."
Langston jabbed a finger at him. "Don't test me, you sorry excuse for a badge. I want answers. Now."
Frank came up alongside, eyes locked on the armored formation. "George, tell me this is a joke. Some sick costume drill, maybe even a PR stunt. Because if you're actually planning to march this lot into the streets looking like that…"
Hartshorne's smile only grew. "Wish it were, Reagen. You and your taste for bad punchlines." He gestured behind him with a slow sweep of his arm. "But no. This is very real. No drill. No performance. Just justice—delivered the old-fashioned way."
Hartshorne tightened the leather glove around his wrist with a slow, deliberate tug. "Gentlemen," he said, "allow me the honor of reintroducing you to my pride and joy… to Norsefire."
Langston's jaw clenched. "You can't be serious," he growled. "Last time you unleashed your maniacs into the world, people died. Dozens of 'em. Twice as many wounded. And don't even get me started on how many got hauled off to Revel's End without so much as a damned hearing, locked up for months—some for years. No charges. No justice. Just vanished."
He stepped in closer, jabbing a finger into Hartshorne's chest.
"The Tower had to bleed millions in restitutions just to mop up the fallout while you got shipped off to Caerleon so the mob didn't lynch you from the top of the Citadel!"
Frank's eyes widened. "Wait—what? That's what really happened?" He glanced between the two men. "I heard rumors but…"
Langston didn't stop. "Wilhelm had to dance the whole bloody Aristocrats routine just to calm the riots—nine days to Sunday. And now you're standing here, smirking like a damned fool, ready to drag the Tower right back through the filth? Rip apart everything that man built? Everything he bled to fix?"
He leaned in, teeth bared. "Just what the hell are you trying to do, George?"
Hartshorne's grin thinned. "Funny you should bring that up," he said, eyes narrowing. "Considering what you've done. What you had to do."
Langston stiffened, just barely—but Hartshorne caught it.
"The same sins that got Agent Iris killed," he went on. "See, you and I, we're not so different. We've both done terrible things, things we'll carry to our graves. So, spare me the righteous fury, Captain."
"You're no shining symbol of justice. You never were. The Tower might've painted you in gold—but deep down, we both know what's underneath."
Frank stepped closer to Langston. "That's beside the point. You seem to have forgotten where you are, George. Which is rich, considerin' you wear the badge of this city." He gestured around them with a sharp sweep of his arm. "This ain't the Crown City. These folks don't take kindly to being stepped on. You try to hammer 'em down like livestock, and I promise you—they'll bite back. Hard."
He turned his glare to the masked troopers lined up behind Hartshorne.
"And you lot," he said, "you better be damned sure this is the hill you're ready to die on. 'Cause I've seen what happens when people get pushed too far. They don't just push back—they burn it all down."
"Take it from an old bastard who's seen too many fights… not everyone turns the other cheek. Sometimes, they take your Godsdamned hand off for it. This city ain't broken. It ain't cowed. And if you're planning to bring war to its doorstep…" His eyes narrowed. "Then you better start diggin' graves. You're gonna need 'em."
"The people," Hartshorne said coolly, "will learn—just as they always have. That safety has a price. That order must be enforced. The killings, the attack on the Stelios, the attempt on my life—this city is unraveling. And I mean to put it back in its place."
Frank's mustache twitched as he stepped forward. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Hartshorne turned on his heel, pacing slowly before his assembled troops. "It means Nemesis has been operating far too comfortably within Caerleon. Moving without resistance. Coordinated strikes, strategic targets. Which leads to one inescapable conclusion—they've got a base nearby. And they've got help."
His hands clasped neatly behind his back. "Sympathizers. Collaborators. Civilians aiding and abetting a terrorist cell. People who think the Tower is their enemy. Those individuals will be rooted out. Interrogated. And if necessary, eliminated."
"You have no proof of that!" Langston snapped. "You're talking about turning the truncheon on the people—your people—based on hunches and hearsay, George. Dammit, you, of all people, should know better."
His fists clenched at his sides. "We swore an oath—to protect this city, its people, not crush it under our damned boots. You start rounding up civilians because they might be helping Nemesis, and you'll turn Caerleon into a warzone."
Hartshorne's gaze flicked toward him, calm and detached. "Desperate times, Langston."
"And Burgess?" Langston spat. "You're telling me he stupid enough to sign off on this madness?"
Hartshorne smiled—cold, smug, unmistakably dangerous. "Of course. This is under the Director's express authority."
"What of the Mayor?" Langston asked. "Angela would never allow this. Not in a thousand years."
The Sheriff shrugged. "Let's just say... she's been relieved of her burdens. Indefinitely."
Langston's eyes went wide. His fists clenched before he lunged forward, grabbing Hartshorne by the collar and slamming him back a step. "What the hell did you do?" he growled.
"What was necessary, Captain Langston," Hartshorne said, his smirk deepening. "And in your own words—you of all people should know better."
Langston felt it then—the cold bite of steel at his shoulder. Not a blade, not exactly. It was something serrated, something brutal. His gaze shifted, catching the glint of a massive chainsaw sword, nearly four feet long. The blackened metal was lined with jagged, shark-like teeth, forged for carnage, not precision. The hilt was gripped tightly in the hands of a figure he recognized all too well.
"Astrea?" The name slipped from his lips, thick with disbelief.
She stood beside him in full Norsefire armor—matte black plating, crimson lines tracing the edges, the badge gleaming red against her chest. Another, shorter chainsaw blade hung at her hip. Her ponytail swayed slightly as she turned, emerald eyes narrowed with ice in them. Beside her, the hulking black hound let out a low, rumbling growl.
"Unhand Commander Hartshorne," Astrea said flatly. "I won't ask again. But if you'd prefer, give me a reason to split your skull open. It'd be a pleasure."
Langston's eyes sharpened. "What the hell are you doing here, Lieutenant? You're on suspension."
Her lip curled into a cold smirk. "Not anymore. I've been reassigned—to Norsefire." She tilted her head. "And it's Captain Astrea to you."
Frank's mouth parted in shock. Langston's hands fell from Hartshorne's coat as the older man casually stepped back, brushing himself off with mock care.
"You see, Langston," Hartshorne said, resting a hand on Astrea's armored shoulder, "you've always been a piss-poor judge of character. Blind to true talent. You saw her as a problem. I saw her for what she is—fierce, loyal, and utterly uncompromising."
Langston took a half-step back as Astrea lowered her weapon.
"She was ready to give everything for this city," Hartshorne continued. "You would've thrown her away. I gave her a cause. A command. And now?" He smiled. "She leads her own division. My division."
Astrea's eyes didn't leave Langston. Not for a second.
"You've gone off the rails," Langston growled, teeth clenched as he jabbed a finger at Hartshorne. "Vikander's got a laundry list of complaints longer than my arm—excessive force, profiling, volatile conduct, collateral damage, destruction of property. She's been buried in dozens of Internal Affairs investigations. The only reason she's still wearing a badge is because Clegane kept cleaning up her messes!"
"And now you've taken her leash off? Let her loose on the streets of Caerleon?"
Hartshorne scoffed, tilting his head with a smug little grunt. "Perhaps that's exactly what this city needs."
Langston's eyes narrowed.
"You see, Langston, the masses don't respond to reason or restraint. They need dramatic examples to shake them from their apathy. We gave them peace. Order. And in turn they spat in our faces. They howl for justice but cower at the price it demands."
He folded his arms. "We've done it the right way. The proper way. And look where it's brought us. Now, it's time we do it my way." He folded his arms. "And before you lot get any clever ideas, allow me to reiterate—this comes straight from the top. Burgess himself."
His gaze shifted to Frank. "So then, Captain Langston, Lieutenant Reagan… you've two choices laid plain before you: stand with us, or get the hell out of our way. And make no mistake—if you lift so much as a finger against this operation, I won't hesitate to throw you both into a cell, along with every bleeding-heart fool who follows behind."
He straightened, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath. "Now, if you'll kindly excuse us—we've a city to save."
He turned to Astrea. "Carry on, Captain Vikander."
Astrea flashed a smirk and tossed a mock salute in Langston's direction, her eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction. Then she turned sharply on her heel, facing the battalion.
"You have your orders," she barked. "Move out!"
Like a well-oiled machine, the black-clad troops shifted in perfect formation. Boots thundered against the wet asphalt as they began their descent through the city streets. Armored vehicles followed close behind—jet-black beasts with engines growling, their tires scraping like teeth against the stone. Langston stood motionless at the foot of the precinct steps, fists clenched at his sides, his gaze hard as steel.
"I don't know about you, Shane," Frank muttered, stepping up beside him, "but this is gonna get ugly—real fast. What's the move?"
Langston didn't look at him. "Diggin' up monsters best left buried means one thing: Nemesis has got Burgess backed into a corner. And we both know what cornered rats do." He exhaled. "Get your boys together. I'll rally mine. Anyone left who hasn't sold their soul to the Tower. If we can't stop Norsefire, we'll at least keep civilians out of their crosshairs."
Frank nodded. "Town square. One hour."
He turned toward the precinct, only to nearly collide with Bastion, who strolled out mid-bite on a slice of pizza, oblivious.
"Hey, old man," Bastion said, chewing. "Is that a costume parade out there or what? And was that Astrea I just saw?"
Frank grabbed him by the collar. "Come on, kid," he grunted, dragging him inside as Bastion's pizza hit the ground. "Long story. I'll explain on the way. We've got work to do."
Langston remained where he was, eyes locked on the end of the street where Norsefire's column disappeared into the gloom. He drew a long breath, tension heavy in his chest.
He hadn't seen Norsefire in their prime—only heard the horror stories back at the Tower during his cadet years. His service in Vol'dunin kept him far from Camelot, but the stories had spread: black masks in the dark, curfews enforced with batons, people vanished in the night. A reign of fear and fire that had left its mark so deep, King Uther himself demanded reparation.
Langston still didn't know how Lamar Burgess smoothed things over—how many palms were greased; how many truths were buried. But one thing was clear.
No number of favors, no flood of Platas, was going to wash this away.
War had come to Caerleon.
And this was just the beginning.
****
The clatter of cutlery on polished porcelain filled the vaulted space of the Great Hall, mingling with the low hum of student chatter and the crackle of floating chandeliers overhead. Warm crystal light danced across long wooden tables and stone walls, casting flickering shadows that swayed like ghosts among the banners of the Five Houses. The scent of roast lamb, rosemary potatoes, and butter-glazed vegetables hung heavy in the air, wrapping the room in the comfort of hearth and home—a testament to Chef Gusteau's legendary touch. Excalibur had never dined finer.
Godric sat alone at the far end of the long table—their usual place. Though the weekend granted freedom from uniforms, he wore his House robes anyway, collar fastened tight, sleeves rolled just so. The red trim seemed more subdued tonight, or perhaps it was the way the torchlight hit the fabric. His posture was rigid, a soldier among students, his fork motionless beside a half-finished plate.
Rowena was likely holed up in the library, as she often was, her mind devouring knowledge as hungrily as others devoured their meals. Helga, ever the wanderer, was probably somewhere lost in the bustle of the town square or nose-deep in fresh-baked pastries.
But Salazar... Salazar was still bedridden.
The white sheets of the Hospital Wing had swallowed him since the fight. Doctor Adani had called it a miracle—said the blade missed vital organs by inches. But Godric knew better. There was no miracle. Just precision. If Asriel had wanted Salazar dead, he'd have bled out on the marble floor of the Stelios before help could ever reach him.
Godric's knife carved through the steak with practiced ease, the serrated edge gliding through grilled flesh until pink juices bled onto the plate. He stared at it for a moment, jaw tense, fingers still. The memory surged forward—steel meeting steel, the sting of sparks against his cheek, the shuddering impact of Asriel's blade hammering into his guard. It had felt like standing in the eye of a storm, every strike a gust of wind that threatened to tear him apart.
Asriel Valerian had not fought like a trained swordsman. He fought like a war-bred predator—every movement sharpened by survival; every step guided by instinct. He moved with a fluency Godric had never encountered. There was no hesitation. No wasted breath. His strikes were swift, punishing, relentless.
Godric's grip on the blade tightened. His circuits had burned, and still, it hadn't been enough.
He lifted the meat to his mouth and chewed. The char was smoky, the juices rich, but it tasted like ash. The bitter realization pressed against his chest like an old wound reopening.
Asriel was better.
Not just stronger—faster, smarter, meaner. Forged in fire and shaped by bloodshed.
And yet, it wasn't fear that stirred in Godric's belly. It was heat. A gnawing, simmering heat. Not hatred—at least, not yet. But resolve.
He wouldn't be outmatched again.
The sharp scrape of a chair against stone pulled Godric's gaze upward. Jeanne had slipped into the seat across from him, her motion fluid, yet cautious—as if unsure she was welcome. Godric's eyes met hers for a fleeting second before he let out a quiet sigh and returned to his plate.
Jeanne offered a wave, small and hesitant, but her smile faltered the moment she caught the scowl carved across his face. Not a word was exchanged as she tucked her napkin into her lap and began helping herself to the roast. Her hands moved with deliberate quiet, yet the tension was undeniable. Godric continued his meal, the scrape of his knife against the porcelain loud in the space between them.
He could feel it—her gaze drifting to him again and again, quick glances like clock hands twitching forward, only to snap away whenever he looked up.
He set his utensils down, the silver clinking lightly against his plate. He exhaled, sat back just slightly, and fixed her with a steady look.
"Alright," he muttered. "Enough with the desperate puppy dog routine." His jaw tightened. "If you've got something to say, I'm listening."
"Oh," Jeanne blinked as she set her utensils down with measured care. She reached for her napkin, dabbing at her lips with practiced grace, though her hands betrayed the tremor she tried to hide. "It's… nothing, really." Her gaze dropped to her lap, avoiding his completely.
Godric's eyes didn't waver. "Please," he said. "Ever since you stepped foot into Excalibur, you've been inching closer to my circle. Bit by bit." His crimson gaze bore into her, unwavering. "And sure, you've gotten in with my friends. They've accepted you."
He leaned forward slightly. "But you and I? We're not there. Not even close."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling hard. "Look. I get it. That night, I pulled you out of a bad place. You thanked me. We're square. But don't mistake that for anything else. Just because I saved your life…" He dropped his hand, eyes narrowing again. "Doesn't mean we're friends."
A flicker of hurt crossed her face, but she quickly composed herself. "I know," she said softly. "I do. But I swear to you, there's no hidden motive here. I'm only offering you my friendship—genuine, nothing more."
Godric let out a breath and rolled his eyes. "And what makes you think I want it?" he replied. "Everywhere I go, there you are. Always within reach. Always watching. You've mistaken tolerance for acceptance—and that's your first mistake."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. "At first, I told myself you were just another lost girl trying to find her place. Someone trying to hold on to anything familiar in a world that feels too big. But now? Now it's grating. Constant. Like a shadow that won't go away." He scoffed. "Unless that's the point."
"Godric, it's not like that," Jeanne said quickly, her voice rising before she caught herself. A few nearby students glanced over. She lowered her tone but kept going, earnest now. "I just thought maybe you—"
"Thought I'd what?" Godric snapped. "That I needed a friend? That I'm some poor, shattered case waiting to be patched up?" He shook his head with a bitter laugh, his eyes narrowing as something ugly twisted in his chest. "Oh, I see it now. That's what I am to you, isn't it? Some tragic bloody charity case. A broken boy for you to fix."
"Godric, that's not fair, I only—" Jeanne raised her hands, trying to soothe the growing tension.
But he was already on a tear. "No, it all makes sense now. Why you're always there. Smiling, checking in, clinging to my friends. I'm just a project to you, right? Another noble cause?" He stood slightly from his seat. "Well, let me save you the effort—I don't need saving. So, if that's all you're here for, kindly shove off and leave me the hell alone."
Jeanne sat frozen; lips parted as the weight of his words sank in. For a moment, silence hovered between them. Then, quietly, she said, "I know all about her."
Godric's entire body stiffened. "…What?"
"Helena told me," she said. "About Raine. I know what she meant to you. I know she's still in there, behind everything you do, every word you speak."
"Jeanne," Godric said, low and cold. It wasn't a plea. It was a warning, barely contained. "You're treading on some very thin ice here."
Her gaze held his—quiet, unwavering, though tinged with sorrow. "I'm sorry about what happened to her, Godric. To both of you. I won't pretend to understand what you shared, but I do know what it means to lose someone."
Godric slammed his palms onto the table. The cutlery clattered and slid off the edge, landing with a metallic clang against the floor. Several heads turned.
"You haven't got a damned clue what loss is!" he snapped, almost trembling with the force of it. "So don't sit there and act like you do!"
Jeanne flinched at the outburst, but she didn't look away. "That's why I wanted to understand you," she said quietly, one hand pressed to her chest. "Grief—pain—we hold on to them so tightly because we're scared. Scared that if we let go, even for a second, we'll start to forget. Their face, their laugh… the way they made us feel alive."
Her voice softened. "But you don't have to carry that weight like it's punishment. No one should have to live like that. Not even you."
Godric's jaw clenched, but she continued, her words gentler now, yet cutting just as deep.
"You're more than this bitterness, Godric. You're more than what you've become. I've heard your friends talk about you—Rowena, Helga… even Salazar. They speak of a boy who burned bright. Brave. Kind. Good. I would have liked to meet him," she said, her eyes glistening. "Not the ghost who keeps pretending that no one can see how much he's still bleeding."
"And you know what?" Jeanne's words didn't waver. "I believe he's still in there. Lost in all the grief and fury you've wrapped around yourself like armor." Her eyes sharpened. "You want to know why I believe that? Because I saw him. That night in Camelot. When everything went to hell, and you still stepped out of the shadows to save me. You didn't have to. You could've walked away. But you didn't."
She leaned in slightly. "I know you didn't ask to be saved. I know you didn't want any of this. But I can't just sit by and do nothing. Not when I've seen what you're capable of. Not when I know someone good is still in there, even if you can't see it."
Godric drew a sharp breath, leaning back in his chair like the words had struck something deep. His gaze drifted from hers, jaw tight.
"You're right about one thing," he muttered, folding his arms. "You don't understand. Not about me. Not about Raine. Not about any of it."
He looked back at her, eyes cold now. "So, if you're done playing savior, I'd appreciate it if you found a new spot to finish your supper. Somewhere far away from me."
Jeanne's expression faltered, her shoulders drawing inward as she reached for her plate—but Godric hardly noticed. His attention had shifted, drawn by a familiar weight pressing against him from across the room. At the far end of the Great Hall, seated at the center of the staff table, Headmaster Blaise Windsor's gaze was fixed upon him.
Cool, composed, and piercing, those sapphire eyes held a quiet disappointment. No words were spoken. None needed. Godric had known the man long enough to understand the message in his stare.
He looked away, jaw clenched. Let him be disappointed. He didn't care.
Just as Jeanne pushed back her chair to leave, the sudden clatter of boots against the stone floor broke through the hum of the dining hall. Heads turned as Anton rushed in, his tuxedo slightly askew, breath short from the run.
"Headmaster! Headmaster Blaise, sir!"
He made straight for the teacher's table, skirting past the chairs until he reached Blaise's side. The Headmaster leaned in without a word as Anton whispered something urgently into his ear.
Godric saw it—the flicker in Blaise's eyes. A rare crack in that well-guarded composure.
"Summon the Professors and the Visionaries," Blaise said urgently. He folded his napkin and set it beside his untouched plate. "I want them in my office at once. And not a word of this to anyone else, is that understood?"
Anton nodded sharply. "Of course, Headmaster." He turned on his heel and darted back across the hall, disappearing through the main doors.
Blaise rose, tugging his robes straight as he made for the side corridor—the one reserved for staff. His pace was swift, purposeful. No trace of the leisurely headmaster now.
Godric's brow furrowed as he watched the door close behind him.
Something's wrong. And whether he liked it or not, he knew it wouldn't be long before they were all pulled into it.