For the first time in months, the seasoned mayor of Caerleon allowed herself a breath of relief. From the iron-framed windows of her chamber, she had watched the battle unfold from dawn to dusk, the sky shifting from the scarlet wash of sunset into the black of night. Her city still burned, its wounds deep and uncountable, but the sight of Tower airships circling above and their troops securing the streets told her the nightmare had finally ended. The shadow that had suffocated Caerleon for so long had been broken. Those who had sought only ruin would now face justice.
Her hand clutched the armrest as she eased herself down, knees buckling beneath her. A strained groan escaped her lips as she lowered into the chair, her palms kneading sore thighs. Only then did she realize, she had been standing all day, rooted at the window. A tired smile touched her lips as she thought of Blaise. They had often joked about the years catching up to them, both denying it with stubborn pride, yet here it was, undeniable. Age had stolen the endurance they once took for granted.
There had been a time she could go for hours without pause. Rallies, debates, speeches, meetings stacked one after another, her days consumed by fire and purpose. Now, one meeting left her breathless, her body demanding the respite she had once scorned.
Her gaze drifted back to the burning skyline, smoke curling into the heavens as firelight painted the city in amber scars. A cold, stabbing fear coiled deep within her chest. For all the relief of victory, for all the pride of survival, she could not shake the thought that haunted her still: this war had taken more than lives and homes. It had stripped away something in her too, something she could not yet bring herself to name.
The rasp of knuckles against the door drew her attention. The brass knob turned, and Blaise stepped inside, sapphire eyes catching Ramonda's gaze before he closed the door behind him.
"Good evening," Blaise said with quiet formality. "I trust I'm not intruding."
Ramonda shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she waved a hand dismissively. "Please, Blaise, spare me the pleasantries." She inhaled softly, then narrowed her eyes. "You smell like Hell itself."
Blaise paused, tugging at his robe. He bent slightly, inhaled, then let out a short, rueful laugh. "My word, you're right," he admitted. "Forgive an old man for presenting himself in so unseemly a state." His expression shifted, heavy with the weight of the evening. "I was not… particularly forgiving today."
"That is an understatement," Ramonda replied, gesturing to the chair opposite her. "I saw your display from here. Those blue flames…" Her gaze hardened. "There is only one wizard alive who can conjure such fire." She exhaled slowly, the memory souring her breath. "Few of us still live who remember the horrors of the Blue Night."
Blaise's gaze widened slightly at the mention, though his composure returned as he lowered himself into the chair, fingers steepling over his waist. "The Blue Night…" he murmured. "Yet another tragic name I haven't heard whispered in years." His eyes drifted shut for a brief moment before opening again, wearier now. "It seems that no matter how deep I bury the man I once was, the world insists on unearthing him."
He slipped the glasses from his face, polishing the lenses with the hem of his robe. "I crossed paths with an old acquaintance today. A man from another place… another life."
Ramonda studied Blaise, her gaze softening. "Knowing you, I expect you gave them a choice."
Blaise inclined his head, slipping his glasses back into place. "Indeed. We are all blessed with free will, and with that blessing comes accountability. Every choice we make binds us to its consequence, whether we embrace it or not."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees. "The Blue Night was… regrettable. Its shadow has haunted me for decades. Yet if you were to ask me now, would I undo it, given the chance?" He paused, eyes narrowing with conviction. "No. Without hesitation, I would do it again. And I daresay, Angela, were you in my place, you would have done the same."
Ramonda closed her eyes briefly, a soft laugh slipping out before she shook her head and met his gaze once more. "You're damned right, I would."
Blaise drew a sharp breath before rising. He then moved to the window, clasping his hands neatly behind his back as he gazed down at the broken streets and smoldering ruins of Caerleon.
"Those brutes have carved their scars deep into this city," he said quietly. "And it pains me to admit the road to recovery will be long, tedious, and fraught with peril. Not only for Caerleon, but for Excalibur as well. I expect an exodus come the end of term, and I cannot fault the parents for it."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I could curse Lamar until my dying day for the horrors he loosed upon my students, upon the people, upon all of Avalon itself. And still, it would never be enough."
"You're far too kind," Ramonda replied. She leaned forward in her chair. Eyes locked on him. "I fully intend to hold the Council accountable. They will restore Caerleon to what it was before they unleashed their rabid hound upon us, and they will do it on their purse."
Her fingers steepled as she lowered her gaze, the silence stretching a moment before she spoke again. "But tell me, Blaise… do you believe we would have survived, had Lamar Burgess been in his prime?"
Blaise turned, one brow arched, curiosity and caution mingling in his expression.
Ramonda met his eyes. "Burgess was always unhinged, yes, but the Tower and the Council wielded his name like a weapon. They dangled his reputation before nations like a nest of hornets ready to be cast into their midst. And reputation aside, he was every bit as dangerous, every bit as formidable, as the stories claimed."
Blaise's gaze softened as he answered. "If you ask whether we would have survived Burgess at the height of his power, then no, I fear we most certainly would not. At his peak, he was a storm few could withstand. But in those days, Lamar was not alone in his renown. We had Winston. We had Wilhelm. And I'd wager that even Burgess, for all his savagery, would not have prevailed against the both of them united."
He paused, then turned back toward the old mayor, his eyes narrowing with quiet insight. "But that isn't your true question, is it, Angela?"
Her gaze did not waver.
"You wish to know if, at any moment in this battle, I believed Lamar might win." Blaise's tone lowered. "I would like to say no, but that would be a lie. There were fleeting moments, yes. Moments when doubt whispered."
A faint smile curved at the edge of his mouth. "But it passed. Because I had faith. Faith that wherever darkness festers, there will always be those with the courage to rise against it. Just as the Five Heroes once stood against Sarkon a millennia ago. And today, that same courage shone before our very eyes."
Ramonda drew in a long breath and exhaled, her shoulders easing with the release. "I've been thinking, Blaise. I have served Caerleon for decades, given the best years of my life to this city." Her words softened, touched by sorrow. "My husband is gone. My children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren live lives of their own. And for the first time in many years, I can admit it freely." Her eyes found his. "I am tired, Blaise. So very, very tired."
Blaise said nothing, only offered a slow, respectful nod.
"This will be my final term as Mayor," Ramonda continued. "It will take time to find a successor fit for the chair, but I will see to it Caerleon is left in capable hands."
"If that is your wish, Angela, then I respect it fully," Blaise replied.
A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. "Perhaps, when I am finally free of my obligations, you might take me along on one of your sabbaticals."
Blaise allowed the faintest chuckle. "As it happens, I know of a quiet paradise in Bermuda. Do pack sunscreen, though. The sun there has no mercy."
Ramonda's laughter warmed the air for a fleeting moment before fading. She drew a deeper breath, her words turning solemn again. "Nevertheless, Excalibur, Caerleon, even Avalon itself. None of it will ever be the same again."
Blaise returned his gaze to the window, the city smoldering beneath the night sky. He shook his head slowly. "No," he murmured. "It will not."
****
The city of Caerleon reeled in the aftermath of battle. The Tower's forces worked with steady precision—tents and shelters rising where homes had been razed, medical centers sprouting amidst rubble, the wounded tended, the dead gathered with care, and the captured remnants of Norsefire bound and escorted under guard. Boots struck cobblestones and scraped over broken concrete as order slowly took shape from chaos. Families huddled together, clutching blankets, porridge cooling in bowls, coffee steaming in tin cups. Few had appetite; fewer still had thirst. Students, militiamen, and members of the Congregation sat in weary silence, adrenaline still coursing through their veins. The tremor in their hands, the chill sinking into their bones. It was only now dawning that they had survived not a skirmish, but a war.
For many, war had been something read about in books, tales of foreign fields soaked with blood, horrors endured in lands far from Avalon's crossroads. Caerleon had always seemed untouchable, too proud, too vital to suffer such a fate. Yet as smoke clung to the sky and the city burned beneath, the truth was plain: nowhere was safe. Not truly.
Winston stood beside one of the tents, a steaming cup in hand. He watched the Tower's troops move through the city with the discipline of long campaigns. His eyes lingered on Frank, deep in discussion with a cluster of Captains and Lieutenants, his gestures sharp as he briefed them on their next steps.
The man allowed himself the smallest of smiles. He remembered Frank as a fresh recruit out of the academy. Steady, talented, but never one to seek rank. Much like Wilhelm before him, Frank believed a man belonged with his soldiers, not on a pedestal playing king.
The troops recognized Winston. The older veterans approached in quiet respect, hands clasped in greeting. Legends were rare enough, rarer still to be seen walking among them. Winston only sipped at his coffee and shrugged it off.
"As much as this debacle has been naught but one misfortune after another," came a voice at his side, clipped and cool, "I should hope this finally forces Reagen out of his shell."
Winston turned his head. Roland had stepped up beside him.
A chuckle rumbled from Winston. "I couldn't have said it better myself." His eyes returned to Frank, still briefing his men. "I've long told him he'd make a fine Captain. Perhaps even Chief and Gods willing, Commissioner, one day. But the man lives on humble pie. Swears by it as if it were bread and water."
Roland folded his arms, gaze distant. "Not all of us are built for the burden of leadership. For years, even I feared its weight."
Winston snorted softly, a wry smile at his lips. "I find that hard to believe, son. Especially from the one they once called the Merciless."
Roland's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "That's neither here nor there."
Winston chuckled, though the sound carried no joy. The smile faded as he turned slightly away, eyes fixed on the glow of Caerleon's battered skyline. "I heard you apprehended Lamar."
Roland's silence spoke louder than words, his expression hardening, shadows deepening across his face.
"For what it's worth, I'm proud of you," Winston said quietly. "I can only imagine how strong the temptation must have been to end him on the spot. Truth be told, had you done it, I doubt anyone would have blamed you. Least of all me."
Roland's jaw tightened, his reply edged with a simmering fury. "I'm not ashamed to admit I've dreamt of it. Long nights plotting, even scribbling in old notebooks, silly little sketches of a thousand ways I might kill Lamar Burgess and be rid of him. Especially during those cursed holidays when he'd sit at our table."
A bitter, almost disbelieving laugh escaped him. "Mother once found one of those books. She was furious with me. Claimed I was harboring vile thoughts toward a man we were meant to treat as family. Yet she knew well enough I never liked him. Never intended to make peace with him. But even so, all she ever wanted. For all of us was that we might be happy." He exhaled sharply. "Even him."
"Aye," Winston murmured, the weight of years in his tone. His gaze shifted back toward Roland. "But as they say… reality has a way of disappointing."
Roland's grip tightened across his arms, letting the silence linger a moment longer before he spoke. "What do you believe will happen now?"
"You mean after all this?" Winston raised his mug, gesturing vaguely before taking a slow sip. He smacked his lips as though tasting the bitterness of the thought. "A trial for the ages, I expect. One that will eclipse even the scandal of Lady Gloreth's murder. Lamar's crimes stretch further than anything Avalon has seen in centuries, and mark my words, the Council will want more than blood."
His eyes darkened. "They'll want a spectacle. A lesson carved into stone. There is but one punishment fit for sins of this magnitude."
Roland scoffed, shaking his head. "Lamar's one thing, but if the Council thinks they can wash their hands of him without the stain rubbing off, they're deluded. He was their man. Director because they crowned him so. Every atrocity he committed, they sanctioned, either by silence or by willful ignorance. They never once questioned him. Not his methods. Not his madness. They let him run unchecked." His expression hardened into steel. "That makes them accomplices. Every last one of them."
Winston shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I see the years have done little to cool that fire of yours. The same fire you've carried for the Council since the day they lined me up for an early retirement, alongside your hatred of Lamar."
"And you don't?" Roland shot back, his gaze hardening. "They gave you no due process, no hearing, not even the decency of a trial. They took Lamar's word as gospel and cast you to the wolves without a second thought." He turned away, arms folding tightly across his chest. "I won't pretend otherwise. I'll savor the storm that's coming for them, and this time there'll be no savior to shield them from the reckoning."
"I'll admit…" Winston's eyes dropped to the empty cup in his hand. "After all I'd given. The years, the treaties brokered, the wars I kept from boiling over. I thought, perhaps foolishly, they'd at least grant me the courtesy of being heard. The betrayal cut deeper than I cared to show."
He drew a steadying breath. "But anger fades, given time. Perspective takes its place. Recognition mattered less than the years I was granted with your mother. Happy years I'd never have known had I remained chained to the Tower."
Roland inclined his head, his jaw set firm. "That being said, I give you my word, Father. When Lamar's sins are laid bare before a court of law, I will see to it that your name is cleared. Your record expunged. And the blasted Council will be made to answer for their negligence." His lips thinned. "Even if I have to drag them to their knees to do it."
Winston let out a low laugh. He shook his head slowly. "Now that would be a sight worth living for. The day those pompous old bastards choke out an apology."
The silence between them stretched, broken only by the shuffle of Tower boots against the cobblestones, the distant murmur of orders carried through the smoke. Winston's voice cut through at last.
"You feel it too, don't you?"
Roland arched a brow but said nothing, letting his father continue.
"There's a new wind sweeping across Caerleon… across all of Avalon," Winston said, his eyes narrowing as though searching the horizon. "Lamar's little crusade has set in motion currents that none of us can stop, and fewer still would ever have believed possible. I fear our Little Crow may be caught adrift in it, carried further than she was ever meant to go."
Roland's eyes slipped closed, a faint smile curving his lips. "I wouldn't worry yourself, Father. Rowena was never meant to be bound by our world forever. Nor by the self-imposed chains of Ravenclaw rules and restraint."
He opened his eyes again, the steel in them softened with certainty. "You're right, the world is changing. The old lines are blurring, and the world we kept at arm's length is bleeding into Avalon. But she won't be swept away by it." His gaze lifted. "She'll be the bridge to it."
Winston studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye… I suppose you're right."
****
Arthur let out a groan, tugging at the blood-soaked fabric of his crimson vest. "Bloody hell, this is going to take an age to come off. If there's one thing I despise more than battles, it's the mess they leave behind." He lifted a loafer, scowling at the dark smear across its sole. "By the Gods, that's vile."
The castle bore the scars of the slaughter. Charred stone and shattered glass, walls painted red where entrails still clung. Bodies lined the halls, some being dragged toward the Hospital Wing, others already covered with sheets. Prefects under Lucian's command moved with grim discipline, scouring stairwells and corridors for stragglers, while the Clans tended to the fallen and patched the wounded. Victory had come, but it carried no joy, only the tremor in the students' hands, the hollowness in their eyes.
Arthur and Artoria emerged onto the landing, leaving their Clan to see to the rest. The bridge to the Ignis dorms was choked with Norsefire corpses, their numbers testament to the ferocity of the fight. Both twins bore the mark of it, Arthur's arm swaddled in a bloodied bandage, his clothes in tatters, while Artoria's dented armor bore streaks of soot and a strip of cloth circled her brow.
Artoria rolled her eyes, her hand still resting on her sword. "Honestly, must you always be so dramatic?"
Arthur's scowl deepened. "Just because you've resigned yourself to a life without standards, dear sister, doesn't mean I must do the same. We may be twins, but clearly only one of us still cares for appearances."
"Because appearances are what truly matter after a siege," Artoria retorted. "I'm sure the students are terribly worried about how you look, brother."
Arthur opened his mouth to snap back when a voice cut through, steady and calm.
"One wonders where you find the strength to quarrel after such a battle."
They turned to see Genji approaching. His robes hung in tatters, torn and stained with blood. Bandages swathed his torso, some still seeping red, but his step remained measured.
Arthur grimaced. "By the throne, Genji, you look as though you've been chewed up and spat out by a cyclops."
Genji gave a low chuckle, inclining his head. "Perhaps we share in that, Arthur-san." His eyes softened. "I've just returned from the Hospital Wing. Sarissa took a blow to the head. A nasty one, but the healers assure me she will recover."
"After everything, it is a blessing that was all she suffered," Artoria said, arms folded across her chest. Her breath tightened. "Others were not so fortunate. We've counted our share of losses."
"As have I," Genji replied, his gaze falling. "They were not merely members of my Clan. They were my comrades. Brothers. Their laughter still lingers in my ears, and yet… they are gone. This victory, though necessary, brings me no joy. Only sorrow."
Arthur exhaled, his expression hardening. "A sorrow we share, dear friend. And I swear, I await Burgess's execution with anticipation enough to warm my veins. May he choke on it." His teeth bared in a sharp flash.
Artoria shot him a glance, though she let it pass, her eyes turning back to Genji. "Any word of the other Visionaries?"
"As far as I know, they prevailed," Genji said, edged with fatigue. "But like us, not without cost. Still… there is comfort in knowing most of the students live."
"As expected," Artoria nodded, then stilled. "That being said, I believe the Table must be convened. In light of what has happened, we must discuss where we stand, and where we are going." Her gaze shifted between her brother and Genji.
Genji met her eyes. "I do not oppose such a call. Yet I cannot help but approach with unease."
Both Arthur and Artoria fixed their attention upon him.
"Like it or not," Genji went on, "the Congregation stands in uncharted waters. Lamar's madness has set in motion currents that will shape Avalon's course for years. This battle has dragged us from the shadows and into the light. We are no longer a child's game, dismissed by the people. No. With this victory, we have inherited a burden, and a legitimacy that cannot be denied."
Arthur's lips pulled into a grin despite the heaviness. "You're right, of course. But admit it, Genji, it is rather exhilarating."
Artoria rolled her eyes. "Of course you would say that," she muttered. "But Genji speaks truth. The Congregation. The Table. We've gone far beyond any of our predecessors. When Caerleon is restored, when Avalon steadies itself, we must choose where we stand, and what we mean to the world."
Genji and Arthur both nodded, though before any of them could speak further, the air above split with the sound of heavy wings and a sharp, piercing cry. All three lifted their heads as a hawk descended, its silver plumage glinting under the fractured light.
"Ayden!" Arthur called, extending his arm. The hawk swooped down and perched neatly upon it, feathers ruffling as Arthur stroked the bird's breast. "What brings you here, old friend?" His eyes narrowed as he noticed a brown envelope tucked beneath the harness.
As Arthur removed it, Ayden gave a restless flap before hopping to Arthur's shoulder. The envelope bore the unmistakable wax seal of House Pendragon. Arthur exchanged a glance with his sister before breaking the seal and sliding the parchment free. His sapphire eyes scanned the lines of ink, his jaw tightening as he read. When at last he looked up, his gaze met Artoria's.
"It's from Father," he said. "He summons us to Camelot at once."
Artoria pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a sharp breath. "Father and his impeccable timing."
Genji allowed himself a quiet chuckle, one hand resting on the hilt of his katana as he passed them by. "Then I won't keep you. Do give my regards to King Uther."
Arthur straightened, arching his back until it gave a series of audible cracks. "Well then, best we start packing." He paused, leaning closer to his sister with a mischievous grin as he sniffed the air. "Although, before anything else, you are in desperate need of a bath."
Artoria's eyes flashed as her hand twitched at her sword. "Trample off."
****
A fragile calm had settled over the slave quarters, though it was a silence built upon fear. Since dawn, the slaves had huddled behind barricaded doors, their breaths shallow, hearts leaping at every thunderous explosion that shook the castle walls. The pounding of boots in the corridors outside made their blood run cold. They waited for the moment the Norsefire would come bursting in, to cut them down—or worse, to revel in their cruelty before sending them to the afterlife.
But the nightmare they braced for never came. Instead, through the muffled stone and splintered wood, they heard Professor Workner's voice. Then came the screams, high and desperate, breaking into pleas that ended in a chorus of steel slicing air, blood splattering hard stone, and the sickening squelch of flesh torn apart.
All the while, Sophia kept herself locked inside her chamber, clutching Hikari tightly to her chest. Beside her sat Shana, turquoise eyes unblinking, fixed on the dresser wedged against the door. Her rabbit ears drooped, her hand resting protectively on the swell of her stomach beneath her tunic. Fear held her fast, not only for herself, but for the child she carried. With each passing hour, she whispered silent prayers for dawn, clinging to the fragile hope that the city would yet see the light of day, and that somehow, against all odds, they would survive to greet it.
Hikari's small hands clutched Sophia's tunic, her niffler plush squeezed tightly against her chest. Her sapphire eyes lifted, wide and searching Sophia's face for reassurance. "Sophia… is everything going to be okay?" she whispered.
Sophia's heart tightened, but she offered the girl a gentle smile. "Rest easy, little one. This time tomorrow, I've no doubt we'll all be celebrating." She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "Chef Gusteau will prepare a great feast, and we'll laugh and sing until the candles burn low. Would you like that?"
A small smile spread across Hikari's face as she nodded. "That sounds fun." She hesitated, her gaze dropping. "Do you think Godric's alright?"
"I've no doubt he's out there fighting for you," Shana said, her own smile warm but steady, drawing Hikari's eyes to her. "For all of us. Just as he did for Raine. He is the Lion of Ignis, after all."
That seemed to brighten her, and Hikari's smile grew. "He and Salazar, and Helga and Rowena too." She hugged her plush a little tighter. "I wish I could be brave and strong like them."
Sophia's expression softened. "Oh, my darling… you're braver than you know."
Hikari nodded quietly, then her eyes wandered to the curve of Shana's stomach. "I can't wait to meet your baby, Shana," she said brightly. "What will you name him?"
For a fleeting moment, Shana's smile faltered, sorrow flickering in her turquoise eyes. She caught Sophia's sympathetic gaze before quickly smoothing her expression. "I… haven't decided yet," she said softly. Then she leaned closer to Hikari, her ears perking just a little. "Tell you what, why don't you help me think of some names?"
Hikari's face lit up, her earlier fears forgotten as she let out a delighted little cry.
The muffled rise of voices filtered through the door. Cheers, sobs, cries of relief that rippled down the corridor. Shana and Sophia exchanged a look before pushing themselves to their feet. Sophia gently lowered Hikari to the ground and moved the dresser aside with effort, pulling the door open.
The sight struck them at once: slaves embracing one another, tears spilling freely down cheeks, hands lifted in prayer to the Gods above. The weight of fear had broken, replaced with trembling joy.
"Sophia, ma papillon!" Chef Gusteau's words rang out as the stout dwarven chef hurried forward, his arms wide, his round face aglow. He seized her hands. "It is over—we have won!"
Sophia's lips parted in a smile that spread quickly to Shana and Hikari. "Oh, thank the Gods…" she breathed.
"Is it true, Chef Gusteau?" Hikari hurried forward, clutching her plush to her chest. "Is it really over?"
"Mais oui, mon chéri," Gusteau said, crouching as he swept her up into his arms with surprising ease. He tapped her nose playfully. "And the best part, eh? I heard it was Godric himself who won the day."
Shana's smile wavered. "Godric?" she asked softly.
"Oui," Gusteau nodded. "It was he who struck down Lamar Burgess. People are now calling him the Hero of Caerleon."
Shana hesitated, ears twitching faintly before she steeled herself. "Did he… finish him?"
The chef's brow lifted. "You mean, did he kill the man?" He let the question hang, shoulders rising in a small shrug.
The pause made Sophia pale, her hand flying to her mouth. "No… surely he didn't…"
"As much as I wish that foul dog to answer with his life," Gusteau said at last, a warm smile spreading across his bearded face, "Godric did not."
Sophia exhaled sharply, relief breaking over her like a wave. Shana's ears perked, the tension in her shoulders easing. Then Sophia's expression snapped to a scowl as she smacked Gusteau lightly on the arm. "You terrible man. Finish your sentences!"
"Ah, pardon, pardon, mon amie," Gusteau chuckled, rubbing the spot with exaggerated dramatics. "Force of habit." He straightened and whistled, clapping his hands together. "Now, come! There are students, survivors, and soldiers who need hot meals, and we, we need a feast! To the kitchens!"
At his call, the other slaves cheered and began following him down the hall, the promise of celebration carrying them like a tide.
Shana clasped her hands together, her smile soft but certain. "I knew it. I always had faith, Godric. You would never give in."
Sophia placed a gentle hand on Shana's shoulder. When the younger girl turned to her, Sophia's expression carried a quiet, troubling weight.
"Something the matter, Sophia?" Shana asked cautiously.
Sophia's tone softened. "Shana, I've been around a very long time. I too was once young, and I know what it is to carry feelings for someone I could never have."
Shana's eyes widened. "What? No, you're mistaken, I'd never—"
But Sophia only held her gaze. The silence stretched until Shana's rabbit ears sank, her hand clutching her arm as she looked away. "Is it truly so terrible?" she whispered, eyes glistening. "To want… to hope?"
Sophia shook her head gently. "No, child. Not terrible. But dangerous. And with Godric…" She sighed. "He is spoken for."
Shana's voice rose before she could stop herself. "But Raine's gone, Sophia!" The words hung raw in the air. Her eyes widened, shame flashing across her face as she turned aside. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean—"
"I understand, truly I do." Sophia's tone carried both warmth and steel. "But you are Therian. You know what that means. Godric loves Raine the way your kind loves. Heart and soul, once and forever. Even if she is gone, his bond to her will never be broken."
Her grip on Shana's shoulder firmed. "I don't say this to wound you, Shana. I say it to spare you. One-sided love among Therians… I've seen what it does. It consumes, and it never ends well."
Shana drew a sharp breath, her chest trembling.
"I'm asking you. No, begging you," Sophia pressed. "Don't pursue this. However much it hurts. In time, the pain will ease, and you will find someone who can love you back. Can you do that for me?"
Shana nodded quickly, wiping at her tears. "Alright, Sophia."
The older woman drew her into her arms, holding her close. "Never forget, you are not alone. We're here for you. All of us."
Shana pressed her face against Sophia's chest, biting her lip as her body shook with silent restraint, but she nodded all the same.