Thunder cracked overhead, lightning tearing through the blackened clouds that loomed above the city. Rain fell in sheets, a curtain of water drenching the battle-scarred streets, rushing down gutters into the sewers below. Each strike of thunder rattled windows in their frames, the sound crawling through Caerleon's bones as if the city itself shivered. A fortnight had passed since Norsefire's fall, and the arrest of the man who had set it all in motion, but the scars remained raw, etched into stone and soul alike.
At the heart of the city, thousands had gathered, draped in black, their umbrellas blotting the square in a sea of dark canopies. Citizens, Excalibur students, Tower personnel—all stood together in silence. Before them rose a wall of framed photographs, hundreds of faces stacked nearly eight feet high, flowers spilling in great waves at their base and stretching as far as the eye could see. No songs were sung. No laughter, no comfort. Only stillness, heavy and stale, as eyes dropped to the rain-slick cobblestones beneath their feet.
Godric, Salazar, Helga, Rowena, Helena, and Jeanne stood at the fore, just before a stage draped in black satin. The Professors sat in their chairs, their own robes dark, their faces shadowed with grief. Some bore tears openly, Professor Lotho, Workner, Anton. Others held their grief behind walls of stoicism, Professor Eridan, Duchannes, Rasputin, Hohenheim. Yet it was the eyes of Serfence and Ashford that unsettled Godric most; there was no sorrow there, only a hollow darkness, the look of men who had seen too much death to mourn it any longer. And somehow, that haunted him more than tears ever could.
Salazar's emerald eyes swept the crowd, catching the soft sobs, the muffled sniffles, the quiet sounds of sorrow. He had grown used to such sounds, and yet, despite the grief that pressed against him from all sides, he felt nothing. Only a cold, empty indifference gnawed at him. Part of him longed to break the tension with a sardonic remark, a cruel flicker of dark humor to cut through the dreariness. Another part reminded him it would be tasteless, uncouth. In truth, he couldn't understand why he should mourn at all, nor could he summon the need to try.
His eyes lifted to the towering wall of portraits. A sharp breath left him. The last time he had felt true sorrow was as a boy. Left alone to grieve while his father vanished on yet another of his excursions. No arms to hold him, no voice to comfort him. That was the day he swore never to let grief chain him again.
Helena's gaze lingered on him, reading the distance in his expression. She leaned her shoulder gently against his arm, and felt the tautness leave his frame. Salazar's hand moved to hers, their fingers weaving together in quiet solidarity.
Nearby, Helga sniffled, brushing tears from her cheeks, though rainwater blurred the difference. She found what comfort she could beside Rowena. Rowena, however, held herself rigid, her grip tightening around the black hilt of her umbrella. Her sapphire eyes burned. Not only with grief, but with anger. The smoldering fire inside her whispered of betrayal. The man she had loved like family had brought this ruin upon them. Though she knew she wasn't to blame, guilt coiled around her heart all the same.
She felt a soft hand on her shoulder, her gaze turning to meet Jeanne's who met her with a gentle smile, her touch a sense of assurance. Rowena wiped the welling tears from her eyes and nodded.
Behind them stood Cú, Údar, and her hounds, their faces marked with somber restraint. Even Nerida, silent and still, carried the heaviness of the moment. Derek leaned heavily on a crutch, Marcus's arm bound in a sling, both watching in silence with the same grief etched across their features.
Further down the line, Frank, Bastion and Langston stood shoulder to shoulder, three of them clad in full uniform beneath heavy overcoats that clung to them, rain seeping through the fabric. Their caps shielded their eyes, though nothing could mask the hardness in their gazes. Almost a dozen medals gleamed across Frank's chest. Silver and gold, earned for courage, for wounds suffered in service. Marks of a man who had built a long and decorated career within the Tower. Yet in that moment, Frank felt no pride. Only shame.
He could see it in the faces staring back at him. Some twisted with anger, some with open disgust, and a few, just a few, softened with sympathy. Not all despised the Tower; many had stood shoulder to shoulder with its Guardians against Burgess and his private army. But Frank could not shake the truth in Burgess' parting words: I am the Tower.
Every brick, every deed be it noble or corrupt, had borne his stamp. Decades of his influence had reshaped the very institution they had fought and bled for into his image. And now, Avalon would never see it as anything else. Frank's moustache bristled as his jaw tightened, his eyes slipping closed as he exhaled through the weight pressing on his chest.
Langston, like Frank, stood silent as stone. His jaw clenched, his expression torn between grief and fury. The faces of the dead haunted him. The innocents slaughtered, the atrocities committed under his watch. A brother offered up on the altar of a madman's ambition, sacrificed for a Tower steeped in rot.
The medals on his chest gleamed in the rain, but to him they were no honor. The Hero of Vol'Dunin—a title spat more as a curse than a mark of pride. His hand tightened into a fist at his side, the leather of his gloves creaking with strain. And in the hollow of his heart, he prayed. Prayed to the Gods for just five minutes alone with Burgess in a locked room.
Bastion fared no better. His mismatched eyes fixed on the wall of portraits, fists clenching until his knuckles whitened. He too carried the brunt of the people's ire. Profanities hurled his way had become routine, and on the days he was lucky, words were all they threw. He remembered the faces children who shrank from him even as he reached to help, the elderly who spat in his face, parents clutching their little ones and dragging them away as though he were some demon made flesh.
Those looks stung deeper than any blade. His fists curled tighter, the weight of his greatsword across his back feeling heavier than ever. For the first time in years, he wished his grandfather were here. Wished that the legendary Overdeath still walked among them. The Tower needed him now more than ever, if they were to weather this storm.
A shrill note cut through the steady patter of rain as Mayor Ramonda stepped to the podium, drawing every eye to her. A man in a crisp black suit followed close, holding an umbrella above her head. Her tired eyes swept across the countless faces gathered in the square, stretching farther than she could see. She drew a slow breath, then leaned toward the circular microphone, its emerald crystal glowing faintly at its heart.
"Citizens of Caerleon. Students of Excalibur Academy. Guardians of the true Clock Tower," Ramonda began, carrying across the rain-slick square. She paused briefly, her gaze flicking to the rows of uniformed men and women before sweeping back over the crowd. "And to those from beyond our walls. Strangers, friends, allies near and far, I bid you welcome. And I thank you for standing with us on this most mournful of days, in this most trying of times."
She let the sound of the rain fill the silence before continuing. "We are gathered here to remember and to honor those who gave their lives for this city. Those who stood against the wolves, against tyranny, against evil itself. Though they have fallen, their final breaths were given in defense of Caerleon. In defense of all of us."
Her words faded into the storm, and she allowed the stillness to linger.
"For centuries, my predecessors have watched this city rise. From a humble crossroads to a railway town, and from that town to the great, sprawling heart of Avalon we cherish today." She exhaled, her expression heavy with the weight of memory. "When I took up the mantle of Mayor, I swore to follow their path. To guide this city to prosperity, to progress. Never… never in my darkest fears did I imagine I would be the first to face such a shadow upon our streets."
The crowd stirred, a ripple of murmurs carried beneath the umbrellas.
Ramonda steadied herself. "A darkness which, by my own hand, I invited within these walls. No matter what excuses may be offered, it is a stain I will bear until my last day." She glanced down at the podium, her hands tightening on its edge. "It is a shame I deem unforgivable. And for that, people of Caerleon…"
She lifted her gaze, the words striking like the rolling thunder overhead.
"This will be my final term as Mayor."
An audible gasp rolled through the crowd, swelling louder than the storm itself.
Ramonda's hands gripped the podium, her knuckles whitening as her expression hardened. "Yet so long as I remain your mayor, hear me now. I swear to each and every one of you, those responsible for this atrocity will not escape justice."
Her jaw set. "Those who crowned that demon and placed him upon a throne will answer for their transgressions. And I vow, with the Gods as my witness, they will restore what they have taken from us, even if it must be carved from their very flesh, pound by pound." The wood beneath her hands creaked with strain. "The days of old, decrepit fools making ruinous choices on your behalf are finished."
She drew herself upright, her grip loosening as her shoulders steadied. Her gaze swept across the sea of faces "I wish I could stand here and give you comfort, even closure. But I cannot. What I can give you is this: my deepest apology, and my most heartfelt condolences for every life taken, every soul torn from us."
Her tone softened, though it carried still over the storm. "But know this, your loved ones will not be forgotten. They will be honored. They will be remembered. And above all, they will be exalted."
The mayor stepped back, her black and grey robes heavy with rain as she returned to her seat beside the professors, her aide following close. From the central chair, Headmaster Blaise rose. As he approached the podium, a man hurried forward with an umbrella, only for Blaise to raise a hand, halting him. He stood bare beneath the storm, rain running down his robes, dripping from his white beard, streaking across the lenses of his half-moon spectacles. With calm deliberation, he removed them, setting them gently upon the podium's surface.
"I know the weight you carry within you," Blaise began, his sapphire eyes sweeping across the multitude before settling on the rows of students. "Feelings I too, have known." His gaze lingered on them, firm yet sorrowful. "Every one of us gathered here has lost someone dear. Friends. Family. Companions. Colleagues. Even those whose names we scarcely knew, but whose absence cuts no less deep."
He turned, his eyes meeting Godric's, then passing over the rest of the Visionaries as they stood at attention. "The faces you see behind me are the faces of those who are gone. To some, they were kin. To others, cherished friends. Whatever they were to you, they mattered. And the bonds you shared with them were real. Bonds that transcend every wall, every boundary, every false division the world would place between us."
He paused, lowering his gaze briefly to the podium. When he spoke again, his voice carried a deeper resonance.
"Once, there was a young man in Excalibur Academy. He sat in these very halls, walked these same corridors. He ate at your tables, scribbled on parchment, lost himself in books of fantasy and wonder. Like all of you, he aspired to something greater. He laughed. He cried. He forged friendships. Friendships that became his family." Blaise's words quieted, though the silence of the crowd gave it weight. "A young man I once respected above all others. A young man I once called my friend. His name… was Lamar Burgess."
Godric's eyes widened. Salazar raised a brow. Rowena's expression turned to stone. Across the square, the crowd broke into uneasy murmurs. Anger in some voices, disbelief in others.
Blaise lifted his hand, and the sound fell away. "Burgess was, as some of you are now, once a student of this Academy. Long before his name became a curse etched into the stones of the Tower, he was simply a boy with promise. A boy with ambition. A boy with dreams."
His sapphire gaze swept over the gathered thousands, before settling on the front rows.
"And that is why I remind you of this sobering truth. Monsters are not born. They are forged. Forged by cruelty, by neglect, by hatred left to fester in silence. Forged by the world's indifference."
He let the storm fill the silence, the rain beating down like a drum.
"Do not mistake me," Blaise went on. "I do not excuse him, nor diminish his crimes. They are abhorrent, and nothing can erase them. But it is easy, far too easy, to brand such men as irredeemably evil. Men who remained loyal to Burgess. Who aided in his atrocities. And in most cases, you would be right to do so. But sometimes, we must look deeper. Past the mask of evil. Past the fear it inspires. And ask ourselves, are such men truly born wicked? Or are they simply what we might become, should we surrender to the darkness within us?"
His eyes lingered deliberately on Godric, Salazar, Helga, and Rowena. "Especially those of you with fire in your hearts, with power in your hands. Remember this well. It is not victory that defines you, but the choices you make when the world tempts you to hatred."
Godric's jaw set hard, the muscle twitching as anger coiled beneath the surface. Salazar's smirk slipped away, replaced by a dark scowl. Helga's hands balled into fists, trembling with contained emotion. Rowena's gaze burned icy and unflinching, refusing to falter.
Each of them drifted back in thought. To the foes they had crossed. Lamar Burgess. George Harthorne. Barton Geddes. Astrea Vikander. Captain Erich. And countless others, wretched and twisted, monstrosities cloaked in the guise of men.
But it wasn't only anger that simmered within them. It was the weight of truth in Blaise's words. Each of them had looked into the eyes of those broken and warped by the world, and what stared back had not been just a foe, but a reflection. In the hollow ache of their chests, they felt it. A twinge of fear.
From the side, Helena and Jeanne watched them with quiet unease, their concern plain as the storm rumbled overhead.
Blaise drew a steady breath, then exhaled. "Burgess was always a man of focus. Of ambition. Even as a student, his intellect and his strength were plain to see. But his folly, his undoing, was his greed."
His gaze lowered. "And I, like so many others…" His eyes shifted, narrowing on Creedy, who stood apart among the slaves. The man bared his teeth before looking away. "…placed my trust and my friendship in those who abused it, who discarded it. A failing of mine. One I shall strive never repeat."
Thunder cracked overhead, lightning splitting the sky and casting the city in a fleeting blaze of white fire.
"It is not only his greed that fills me with disgust, nor his callous disregard for the lives he was so willing to sacrifice upon the altar of his ambition," Blaise continued. "It is the needless sorrow, the countless graves dug by the hands of a madman's aspirations."
He turned, gesturing toward the wall of portraits behind him, his eyes dimming with sorrow. "And tell me, what world is this, where children must bear the battles of adults? Where youth must bleed so their elders may live to see another dawn? That is a shame upon us all. Upon me, upon my professors, upon every one of us sworn to protect them. And we failed."
A solemn hush fell across the crowd.
"And yet," Blaise pressed on, "despite it all, they answered the call. They shed no tears. They did not cower. They did not flee. They knew the risks, and still, they marched. They knew they would be outmatched, and still, they fought. They knew they would face a darkness that had never before fallen upon this city, and still, they stood."
Frank, Bastion and Langton's gaze softened.
He inhaled deeply, his sapphire eyes burning as his words rose above the storm. "Every Guardian. Every student. Every citizen who chose to stand when the world demanded they surrender, delivered a message that cannot be silenced. That they would sooner die upon their feet than live upon their knees."
"And that message must echo. Through Avalon, through the halls of the Three Bodies, through the Council of Kings and the Wizarding Council alike. That here, in this city, in this Academy, the virtues of the Five Heroes of Avalon endure. And so long as we embody them, they shall never die."
His hand gripped the podium. "And neither shall we."
There was a pause. A stillness broken only by the patter of rain upon stone.
Then, a single clap. Slow. Deliberate. All eyes turned to Professor Ashford as he rose to his feet, striking his hands together again, faster, louder. Professor Serfence followed, then others in turn, until the entire line of professors stood applauding. One by one the crowd joined them, the sound swelling into a roar of thunderous applause that rolled through the square. Cú and Údar. Nerida, Marcus, and Derek. Thousands of hands clapping in unison until the city itself seemed to tremble with it.
Several minutes passed before Blaise raised his hand. The applause ebbed, fading into silence, the rain once again filling the space between heartbeats.
"Before I take my leave, there is one final matter I must address," Blaise said, lifting his spectacles, flicking the water from them before settling them back upon his nose. His sapphire gaze swept the crowd. "With the close of this term, I know there are many. Parents, guardians, caretakers, who have no faith left in this Academy. How could you? When your children stood in harm's way. When some of you now face the cruelest of tasks: arranging their final rites."
He drew a slow breath. "I cast no blame upon you. You have endured a loss I would not wish upon my worst enemy. And though I wish I could give you an ironclad assurance, that should your children return, they will be safe, untouched, unbroken—I cannot. I am no oracle. No prophet. I cannot promise what tomorrow will bring."
His shoulders straightened. "Though the true perpetrator is unmasked, your anger toward this institution is well-founded. It is deserved. And I do not deny it," he said, heavy with sincerity. "All I ask… is that, in time, you might find it within your hearts to grant Excalibur another chance. Not for me, nor for my professors—but for the children who remain, and for the ideals this Academy was built upon."
Blaise stepped back from the podium and gave the crowd a deep, solemn bow before returning to his seat. Another figure approached to take his place, but Godric's thoughts had already drifted far from the stage.
Above, the heavens cracked, thunder rolling beneath their feet as lightning lit the storm-blackened sky in blinding flashes. Rain soaked through his unform, through to his skin, until he could feel its weight in every breath. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes and let the downpour wash over him. The last of the black dye that had cloaked his hair ran in streaks, fading into scarlet until the fiery red of his true self shone through once more.
Godric drew in a deep breath. The fire inside him no longer burned with rage. The anger, the pain, the hunger for vengeance that had gripped him were gone. The sword on his back felt heavy again. Not with wrath, but with purpose.
Beside him, Salazar glanced down at Helena. Her head rested gently against his arm, their hands still intertwined. She looked up at him, soft brown eyes bright with a smile that warmed through the storm. Salazar's eyes widened, heat rising unbidden to his cheeks. More startling still was the warmth in his chest. No hollow echo of false sentiment, no mask of indifference, but something real.
Something tender. It felt delicate, like the brush of satin against skin. And for the first time in longer than he could recall, Salazar felt something beyond the cold emptiness he had carried all his life. He wasn't ready to name it, not yet. But he allowed himself a smile, lowering his head to rest his cheek lightly atop hers.
Helga clutched Rowena's arm, wiping the tears from her rain-streaked face. She lifted her chin, her gaze firm now with resolve. In her hand, she held the faded bracelet she had taken from Astrea, squeezing it until her fist trembled. She would never doubt herself again. She would never falter, nor would she bend. The world needed her to stand strong. For her friends, for those she loved. She was not Barton Geddes. She was not Astrea Vikander. She was Helga Hufflepuff. Not a demon, but a girl. Not a monster, but a friend. Not a destroyer, but a guardian.
Rowena's expression hardened. Her anger toward Burgess burned hot, yet there was nothing left to be done. He would face the full weight of the law. The same law he had twisted and corrupted for years. But Rowena's thoughts were not fixed on him alone. They turned inward, toward herself, her family, and the traditions that had bound her.
For years, she had devoted herself to their ideals. She had kept The Congregation at arm's length, dismissing it as her family had always done. A perversion of the order and justice they so proudly upheld. The Tower had called itself the guardian of law, the arbiter of truth. But now she saw it clearly for what it was: a farce. Rules, justice, consequence. All of it, tools twisted by a single man and wielded like weapons for his ambition.
Her gaze darkened. If the Tower her family had revered for generations was built on lies, then so too were its traditions. Its beliefs. Its legacy.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, a small part of her whispered gratitude. If not for Burgess, she might still be a little crow trapped in a cage of deceit. If the truth itself could be warped beyond recognition, then perhaps it was time she sought her own truth.
Beside her, Jeanne's expression softened as she looked upon Rowena, and all of her friends. She closed her eyes, fingers clasped in prayer. Against all odds, they had stood before the darkness and endured. And though she knew many more trials lay ahead, she prayed that she and her friends would find the strength to weather them together.
And above it all, the storm raged on over Caerleon, the thunder rolling like the voice of heaven itself.
****
As the ceremony drew to a close, the crowd began to thin. Footsteps echoed dully against the wet cobblestones and slick asphalt as the rain continued to pour, washing over the grieving city. Bastion leaned against a nearby wall, his hands buried in his pockets as he watched the people drift past. Some whispered condolences to the mourners; others wailed their grief openly, voices breaking against the storm. Faces stared back from the wall of flowers. Faces of the fallen, and as Bastion gazed upon them, his thoughts wandered back to his grandfather.
When he was a boy, Wilhelm would return from his campaigns a different man. A glassy look in his eyes, silent as he sank into his armchair, a bottle of vodka his only companion. For days he would sit unmoving, staring into the fire as it devoured wood to ash and cinder. He spoke nothing. He showed nothing. Bastion would run to him with a smile, only to be met by that pained, faraway expression. Wilhelm was never angry, never harsh, yet he always ushered the boy away with the same quiet message, that he wished to be alone.
Bastion had never understood it then. Not the darkness in his grandfather's eyes, not the clenched jaw, not the tension in the hand that gripped the bottle. He had never understood that the great Overdeath carried a weight heavier than steel: the memory of the fallen, the ghosts of men under his command, of innocents swallowed by war. Not until now.
The storm inside Bastion churned, a maelstrom of anger and grief so raw that had Burgess been before him, he would have taken the man's head without a blink. How many bodies had Wilhelm buried? How many lives had he watched crumble before him. Men and women with futures, stolen by the cruelty of others?
A heavy breath escaped Bastion as he tilted his head back, his mismatched eyes of silver and gold searching the storm-swept sky. His mother had begged him to keep clear of the Tower, and though Wilhelm had taken pride in his grandson following his path, Bastion now realized that a part of the old man had agreed with her.
Bastion's attention shifted at the sound of soft footsteps splashing through puddles beside him. He glanced to his side and found Rem—the cat therian girl from the tavern where he'd been staying. She wore a charcoal-black outfit from her homeland, tied with a simple white sash. She had once told him it was called a kimono. Her straight black hair, long as her waist, clung wet against her back, rain glistening across each strand as well as the dark fur of her ears, their white tufts standing out against the storm. Her tail swayed gently behind her, restless but graceful.
"Heya, Rem," Bastion said with a smile, though his eyes betrayed concern. "Should you really be out in this? Don't want you catching cold."
Her emerald eyes widened, caught off guard, before she looked quickly aside, a hand rising to cover her mouth. A blush crept across her cheeks. "I-it's… nothing," she murmured. She lowered her hand, fidgeting. "I only came… to see how you are doing."
Bastion turned his gaze away, shoulders rising in a shrug. "Could be better," he admitted. His eyes drifted across the mourners, the wreckage beyond. "The whole thing's a Godsdamned mess. The Tower's rotting from the inside out. Caerleon's in pieces. Kids dying in the streets." He shook his head, a humorless chuckle breaking from him. "Grandpa would've lost his damned mind if he were here for this." His lips curved faintly, almost wistfully. "Kinda glad he isn't. His rampage would've been legendary."
Bastion turned his gaze back to her. "How's the family holding up? Despite all this insanity, I heard the tavern survived the worst of it."
Rem let out a quiet sigh. "Survived, yes… but barely. Almost all the furniture's been smashed, supplies ransacked, the insides scorched, equipment broken beyond repair." Her expression darkened. "Worst of all, a number of our heirlooms were stolen. Mementos from our homeland, passed down for generations. To see Father so distraught…" She shook her head, her ears lowering.
"I'm sorry, Rem. Truly… for everything," Bastion said.
Rem quickly shook her head. "No. Please. It isn't your fault, Bastion. You've no reason to apologize." Her lips curved into a gentle smile. "You were out there fighting for this city—for us. I cannot speak for others, but for me, and for my family… you'll always be a hero." Her cheeks flushed as she looked away. "Especially to me."
A warmth tugged at Bastion's chest. He smiled, though he tried to temper it with humor. "Well, damned shame I'll have to find another place to get my sake until your old man gets the tavern running again."
Rem giggled softly, tilting her head as her smile brightened. "You'll always be welcome, Bastion. Just… don't stay away too long."
She turned on her heels and walked off, only glancing back once before disappearing into the rain. Bastion lifted a hand, offering her a small wave. It was then he felt another presence at his side. Turning, he found Frank leaning against the wall, arms folded, gaze half-lidded and a wry smile tugging at his lips.
"What?" Bastion asked, sounding more defensive than he meant to.
"Well, I'll be," Frank drawled. "Making eyes at the ladies. Can't say I blame you. She's easy on the eyes, and you know what they say about therian girls." He grinned, jabbing Bastion lightly in the ribs with his elbow.
Bastion groaned. "Oh, come on, old man. She's what, sixteen? And I'm not looking to date anyone, not now."
Frank shot him a deadpan look. "Kid, I was married with a child on the way at your age. Tied the knot at fifteen. So did your granddad. Worked out for him. For me…" He shrugged. "Well, the missus and I had our falling out. That's what happens when you put the Tower before family."
Bastion arched a brow. "If that's your idea of selling me on marriage, you're doing a piss-poor job."
Frank smirked faintly. "I'm just saying, if it happens, it happens. Don't fight it." His grin widened, needling. "And besides, that little kitten was hanging on your every word."
"You're delusional," Bastion muttered, shaking his head.
"Anyway…" Frank straightened, brushing rain from his sleeve. "Heard about the promotion. Congratulations. Lieutenant Reinhardt—has a nice ring to it." He tapped Bastion's arm with a smirk.
"Don't sell yourself short, old man," Bastion shot back with a mirrored grin. "Captain Reagan? After all those years dodging brass, you finally let one stick." He chuckled. "I just wish Grandpa could be here to see it."
Frank rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, well… with Langston gone, the Twenty-Fourth and Seventeenth are captain-less. Someone's got to keep them in line. And I promised I'd look out for his boys."
Bastion's grin faded. "So… he's made up his mind?"
"Pretty much, kid." Frank shrugged, though his eyes were grim. "And he won't be the last. The Tower's goanna bleed for months. Hell, years. Plenty of people will turn in their brass, put distance between themselves and this mess." His gaze hardened. "And that's not even counting the purge that's coming."
Bastion frowned. "Purge?"
Frank gave a dry laugh. "Call it a hunch. Whoever takes the Director's chair, he's going to clean house. Root out every last rat that sucked on Burgess' toes. And when he's done, they'll wish they'd jumped ship while they had the chance."
Bastion arched a brow, but Frank folded his arms. "Not that I give a damn. No sympathy for those bastards anymore. If anything, I'd volunteer to slap the cuffs on myself. Drag 'em kicking and screaming to whatever dark end they've got coming."
He let the thought hang, then looked back at Bastion. "Speaking of which, orders just came in. We're wanted back at the capital. Pack your gear, I'll see you at the station by dawn." A smirk tugged at his lips. "Besides, I think I could use a new lieutenant." With that, Frank turned on his heel and walked off into the rain.
Bastion stopped, his gaze dropping to the rain-slick asphalt before lifting to meet Frank's back. "I'm not going."
Frank froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned. "What was that?"
"I said I'm not going," Bastion repeated, firmer this time. He then raised a hand to cut Frank off. "And before you start, I've thought about it. Long and hard. And I know, deep down, this city needs me more than the capital ever will."
Frank stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "Kid, you know I don't piss on anyone's parade. But Caerleon's not going to be kind to the Tower. Not after what's happened. There's a storm coming. Anger, resentment, maybe worse. I sure as Hell don't envy the next poor bastard playing Sheriff who has to step up and clean that mess."
"I know," Bastion said quietly, then straightened. "But it's not just Burgess' mess, Frank. It's ours. It's the Tower's. The people have every reason to hate us, and I don't blame them." He dragged a hand through his wet hair, exhaling hard. "Grandpa spent his whole life cleaning up after them, didn't he? Playing janitor for the Tower, mopping up their shit every time they stuck their noses where they didn't belong."
His words faltered, then steadied again. "But Grandpa's gone. He's not here to carry it anymore. And I'm no Overdeath—hell, I'm not even half the man he was. But I have to try. I have to. Because if not me…" His mismatched eyes lifted. "…then who?"
Frank's eyes widened, his face slackening as the words sank in. His hands dropped to his hips, and for a moment he stared at the ground, lips pressed thin. Then, with a breath that carried both weariness and relief, he chuckled and shook his head. When he lifted his gaze again, his grin was faint but warm.
"Look at you, kid. All grown up. Gods above, you could almost make a grown man cry."
He stepped forward, gripping Bastion's shoulder with a firmness that spoke more than words. "You say you're no Overdeath—but just then, I swear I saw Wilhelm in you. Not the legend, not the hero, but the man. You may not be him, Bastion, but you're his blood, his spirit. You're a Reinhardt through and through."
Frank's voice caught for the briefest of moments before he pulled back, straightening with effort. "If this is your choice, then I won't stop you. Follow your heart. Do what's right. And remember this—" he tapped his fist gently against Bastion's chest, lingering there "—make no apologies for the man you become."
Bastion's lips curved into a small, steady smile. "Thanks, Frank. For everything. I won't forget it."
Frank's grin returned, lopsided but fond. "And when you make it back to Camelot, you'd better come find me. I owe you a pint." He gave a sharp salute, though the glint in his eyes made it feel closer to a blessing than a gesture of rank, before turning to stride away into the rain.
Bastion stood watching, the storm washing over him. "Be seeing you… old man," he murmured.