Ramsley regarded the five stunned faces before him, the disbelief practically hanging in the air. He released a quiet sigh, his shoulders loosening as though he had expected nothing less. "It would seem," he murmured, "that my ladyship was correct in predicting your bewilderment. So, if you will indulge me, allow me to clarify matters."
He extended a gloved hand toward Jeanne with a small, courtly gesture.
"House D'Arc is one of the twelve Imperial Houses of Avalon," he began. "Though, over the past centuries, marred as they were by disgraceful politics and the more distasteful habits of nobility, your forebears chose to withdraw from the mechanisms that govern Avalon. A deliberate retreat, I assure you, rather than a fall from grace."
His pale eyes softened, though only faintly. "As for the details of your lineage, Lady D'Arc, I am not at liberty to speak. That tale belongs solely to my ladyship, and she will share it with you in due course. What I can tell you is this. You are the last living scion of House D'Arc. The line ends with you, and thus the mantle of succession rests upon your shoulders."
Jeanne made a strangled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. "M–me?" she managed. "A noble of Avalon?" She shook her head so quickly the ends of her hair whipped about. "No, no—absolutely not—that's impossible. I'm just… I'm just a girl. A normal, average girl from a tiny town no one's ever heard of." Her breath hitched. "My entire life I thought I was invisible. I was taught to be invisible. And now you're telling me I'm—"
Words failed her, leaving only wide, trembling eyes staring at the impossible.
Salazar stifled a laugh, idly tapping a finger against the rim of his tankard. "Considering that a certain no-name boy from the quiet moors of England now carries the title Hero of Caerleon," he drawled, "I find it exceedingly difficult to be surprised by much these days. The idea that Jeanne might be descended from nobility is hardly the most unbelievable revelation we've encountered."
Godric groaned, rolling his eyes. "It's not like I'm some sort of celebrity, Salazar."
"Could've fooled me," Rowena said, arching a brow. "We've been collecting side-eyes and whispers everywhere we go. At this point, I'm more shocked that Jeanne's situation took this long to surface."
Ramsley inclined his head in her direction. "That, Miss Ravenclaw, is something I may shed light upon. Lineage is a dreadfully intricate business, as I'm sure you're aware. House D'Arc traces its bloodline to a period predating even the Calamity, a pedigree few noble families can claim. Over the centuries, many branches of the tree withered, vanished, or were lost entirely, and in their absence, countless pretenders attempted to seize the name for themselves."
His pale eyes sharpened with a glint of disdain. "Every one of them was found false. And given your own family's familiarity with the laws and consequences that govern such matters, I believe you understand precisely what becomes of impostors who lay fraudulent claim to a noble house."
Helga scoffed softly. "What, do they get twenty lashes or something?"
Rowena turned and stared at her. "They get beheaded, Helga. No trial, no quarter. Just a block, a blade, and whatever the crows don't finish."
Helga blinked once, twice, then lifted her tankard and took a long, nervous sip. "Right. Good to know," she muttered under her breath.
Ramsley merely continued, serene as ever, as though decapitation were the most mundane point of conversation one could raise at supper.
"As I was saying," Ramsley continued with a measured calm, "once Miss D'Arc's potential identity came to light, my ladyship spared neither time nor expense in establishing the truth. Such inquiries demand an extraordinary amount of verification, made all the more difficult by the turmoil in Caerleon. I trust I need not elaborate on how that… complicated matters." His pale gaze drifted across the five of them. "It was only quite recently that we obtained a sample from Miss D'Arc herself. One that confirmed our suspicions beyond all doubt."
"Sample?" Jeanne repeated, her eyes widening. "What do you mean, sample?"
Rowena's brow furrowed as her mind worked through the implications. "There's a bloodline confirmation spell," she said slowly. "Old, extremely precise. It can validate whether someone carries the lineage of a specific House. But it requires blood from the claimant, so unless you—"
She froze, realization settling in her expression like a blade sinking into its sheath. "The Hospital Wing… during Jeanne's surgery… surely you didn't—"
"As a matter of fact, we did, Miss Ravenclaw," Ramsley replied, bowing with a contrite dip of the head. "I offer my sincerest apologies for the overstep and any distress it may cause. Unfortunately, the nature of these matters leaves little room for hesitation."
Jeanne's breath caught. "You took my blood? Without asking? That… that has to be illegal!"
"It certainly sounds that way," Godric muttered, his crimson eyes narrowing as he leaned back in his chair, gaze fixed on the elderly butler with a growing edge of irritation.
Ramsley cleared his throat with a soft, dignified rasp. "Regardless," he said, "the matter is now settled." His pale eyes drifted over the five of them. "Your carriage awaits just outside. However, given your rather…" He took in the half-finished platters and tankards cluttering the table along with the mountain of food Helga had nearly demolished. "Bountiful feast, and the regrettably late hour, I would strongly encourage you to remain here for the night and depart come morning. The journey ahead is long, and hardly one to begin on a full stomach and weary legs."
He offered a courteous bow. "I shall take my leave. No doubt the five of you have much to discuss after such a revelation.
"With that, he turned and moved toward the entrance, his immaculate figure slipping quietly into the tavern's din. Silence settled over the table like a heavy cloak, the chatter of the tavern fading to a distant hum as the weight of Ramsley's words pressed down on them.
"Well," Helga said at last, breaking the tension with a faint huff. "That happened." She turned to Jeanne, her amber eyes widening. "So… what now?"
"What now?" Jeanne nearly squeaked, her breath caught between shock and disbelief. "I—I haven't the faintest idea what's next!" Her fingers threaded anxiously through her hair. "I mean, I knew something felt strange, but I never thought it could actually be real. I assumed it was all coincidence. Odd little moments that meant nothing." Her words wavered. "I never imagined any of it would… lead to this."
"As Helga so eloquently put it, it happened, and there's little sense pretending otherwise," Salazar said, fingers steepled with poise as he regarded Jeanne. His emerald eyes softened only a fraction. "Allow me to spare you the spiraling thoughts. Whatever panic you're wrestling with, push it aside. Any attempt to run will only postpone the inevitable, and the inevitable has a remarkable talent for finding people. Far better to grant Lady D'Arc her audience and hear what she wishes to say. What follows after will be your choice alone."
"I agree with Salazar," Rowena added. "The nobles of Avalon are… unpredictable at best. Some are honorable and kind, some are wild and eccentric, and some are irredeemably vile. Entire houses thrive on scandal, protected by bloodline and immunity." She exhaled softly. "But House D'Arc? I've never heard so much as a whisper from them. If they keep to the shadows, then you, unfortunately, are just as blind to their dealings as the rest of us."
"If it helps, Jeanne," Helga said, looking around their circle with a small, earnest smile, "we'd happily go with you."
But Jeanne shook her head quickly. "No. You're all due back in Caerleon, and there's still so much work to do with the Congregation. Half the city has been asking for the Marauders specifically." She managed a thin smile. "You're needed there more than you're needed chasing ghosts with me."
"I'll come," Godric said quietly.
The others looked up in surprise as he leaned forward, crimson gaze steady and resolute. "Salazar, Helga, Rowena can manage whatever contracts appear. Jeanne shouldn't walk into this alone." He paused, letting the certainty behind his decision settle between them. "If she's going to meet a noble house claiming her blood, then someone should be there to watch her back."
"Exceptional idea," Salazar drawled, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "After all, I daresay even the most wretched of noble houses would think twice before laying a finger on Jeanne when she's flanked by the illustrious Lion of Ignis. Especially one who now enjoys the rather inconvenient distinction of being favored by House Pendragon."
Godric groaned. "Blimey, you make it sound as though King Uther's gone and adopted me."
"That," Helga chimed in with a teasing smile, "and half of Caerleon would probably start a war if anything so much as sneezed in your direction. You're their precious hero, remember?"
"Helga, please," Rowena sighed, rubbing her temples. "I've endured enough wars to last me several lifetimes. I'd prefer not to survive one only to be dragged into another because Godric can't go anywhere without collecting admirers like stray cats."
Laughter rippled around the table, softening the weight of everything that had just unfolded.
Jeanne's cheeks warmed. "Thank you," she murmured, lifting her gaze to each of them. "All of you. If there's one thing I'll never regret about coming to Avalon, it's meeting you. You took in a lost, ordinary girl from another time and place… and now I wouldn't trade any of you for anything. Not even the world."
"Aww, shucks, Jeanne," Helga said, rubbing the back of her head with a sheepish grin. "You're really going to make me blush."
"You're more than welcome," Salazar replied, raising his tankard in a small salute. "And might I add—" his gaze flicked toward Godric, catching the faint glow of the pendant around his own wrist, "You shielded Godric when it mattered most, with no regard for your own life. If that doesn't prove the depth of your courage and your loyalty, I daresay nothing will."
Godric smiled, the expression softening the hard lines still lingering around his eyes. "We'll figure this out," he said gently. "Whatever the truth is, whatever you decide… we're with you. All of us."
Jeanne looked at each face in turn. Helga beaming, Rowena offering a steady nod, Salazar tipping his tankard, and her shoulders eased, just a little.
"Right then!" Helga announced suddenly, snatching another rack of ribs with unholy enthusiasm. "How about we stop drowning in doom and gloom and finish this glorious feast?"
A collective groan rose from the others. "By the Old Gods," Salazar muttered, staring mournfully at the disappearing food, "Marcus was right, binging truly is a form of Jotnar torture."
Helga ignored them entirely, already devouring the next rib, and the tavern's clamor rolled on. Laughter, tankards, music, carrying them all gently into the deepening night.
****
Hours beyond the tall stone walls of Stornoway, across the sweep of forests and mountains that stitched together the heart of Avalon, the crossroads city of Caerleon stirred beneath the rising sun. Golden light spilled over rooftops and scaffolding, gilding a city still healing from its wounds. Airships drifted across the skyline while trains hissed through the arteries of rail, their crystalline vapors lingering in the morning air with a sweetness that clung faintly to the tongue. The polished floors of Caerleon Central Station thrummed with life once more, footsteps and voices weaving together in a steady, pulsing rhythm.
The streets beyond were packed with vehicles as citizens returned to the slow, careful business of living. Greetings drifted between neighbors with an ease that had not existed before the siege. Laughter rose in pockets across the boulevards. Friendly banter echoed from cafés and market stalls. A strange, unexpected unity had taken root in the aftermath of devastation, for the city's trials had forced its people to set aside the old prejudices that once split them apart. Race, status, nobility, those lines had blurred into something nearly insignificant. Even goblins who had once been shunned were now welcomed openly. Hands that had never clasped before now reached instinctively for one another.
Much of Caerleon still bore the scars of that terrible day. Streets remained half-ruined, façades crumbled, windows shattered, twisted beams rising like ribs from old wounds. Yet everywhere workers moved with tireless purpose. Stonecutters restoring arches, masons patching fractured walls, cranes lifting new steel into place. The city breathed, strained, and pressed stubbornly toward normalcy.
Mayor Ramonda, in the final months of her tenure, had delivered on her promise with a tenacity that surprised even her critics. With the substantial funds confiscated from the Wizarding Council, she had thrown every ounce of her will into restoring Caerleon to its former glory. Her recent announcement of retirement had set the city buzzing, whispers trading hands about potential successors. For the first time in decades there would be a real election, an open field without an incumbent, and already names were swirling behind closed doors, though none yet spoken aloud.
Excalibur Castle, perched above the city like a weathered sentinel, remained alive with students who had returned early for a head start on the academic year. Yet the halls lacked their usual authority, for most of the professors were still away on summer break, including their illustrious headmaster, who had reportedly vanished to a place called Bermuda, much to the staff's bafflement and amusement.
Yet despite the renewed warmth that threaded through Caerleon's streets, a lingering shadow clung stubbornly to its edges. The city might have rediscovered its sense of kinship, but beneath that fragile unity lay a deep, simmering hatred reserved for one group alone. Eyes narrowed whenever they passed. Faces twisted in quiet contempt. Some citizens cleared their throats pointedly, spitting onto the cobblestones near polished boots as if the very presence of those gray-clad figures soured the air.
Members of the Clock Tower, once exalted as guardians of the realm and arbiters of its laws, now walked the streets like pariahs, their uniforms no longer symbols of prestige but warnings of rot. Their badges, once gleaming emblems of authority, hung like marks of disgrace.
Burgess's atrocities had gutted whatever trust remained in the institution. Many officers had laid down their wands and surrendered their badges in the desperate hope of avoiding the public fury sweeping across Avalon. But those who stayed, either out of duty or stubborn conviction, now found themselves facing a brand of prejudice the city had never before shown.
For the Guardians and Aurors caught at the center of the storm, this disdain had become a daily ritual. Glares sharp enough to draw blood, hushed insults flung like stones, the uncomfortable knowledge that the very people they once protected now viewed them as remnants of a corrupted age. The storm had passed, but its bitterness clung to them still.
Even so, crime remained a stubborn pulse within Caerleon's veins. With the Tower stretched to its breaking point and the Guilds reserved for those with coin to spare, entire wards. Especially the poorer districts, had been left exposed. Bandits, thieves, and desperate criminals prowled the city's softened edges, eager for any opportunity that promised a quick score.
A crash shattered the morning calm as a wooden chair exploded through the front window of a small general store. Glass rained across the cobblestones, sending cans, fruit, and vegetables tumbling in every direction. Five young men burst out after it, each clad in white shirts marked with a red tribal dragon sprawling across the fabric. Bandanas of the same crimson hue masked their faces. Some clutched boxes. Others held armfuls of stolen produce. And one, clearly their leader, carried a brown sack heavy enough to clink with stolen coin.
"Adios, losers!" he shouted, tugging his mask down just far enough to flash a crooked smirk. The scar carved along his lip and the gleam of a gold-plated tooth made the expression even fouler. Behind him, the elderly halfling shopkeeper bled from a cut on his forehead, his wife crouched beside him in trembling shock.
The gang sprinted toward a patched-together car waiting by the curb. A Frankenstein creation of steel plates, rusting bolts, and mismatched parts. They piled in all at once.
"Move, move!" the leader barked.
The crystalline engine coughed, then roared into life. Tires screamed as the ramshackle vehicle lurched forward and tore down the road.
"Hoo man, this is a sweet haul!" the leader laughed, digging his hand into the sack. "Told you this was gonna pay off." He shot a nod toward one of the boys in the back seat. "Nice work on the scout, ese. Knew we could count on you."
The boy in the back seat let out a triumphant laugh, until his gaze snapped forward and the sound died in his throat. His face drained of color.
A figure stepped into the street.
A young man, calm as stone. Short black hair shaved at the sides and spiked back on top. Eyes mismatched, one gold, one steel gray, both narrowing with cold, razor focus. He wore layered body armor beneath a long gray coat that swept around his boots as he planted himself squarely in the car's path. He reached over his shoulder, fingers curling around the hilt of the greatsword strapped to his back.
The weapon growled awake as he revved it. Once. Twice.
A crystalline engine whirred inside the hilt, steam venting from ports along the guard. Light—red, vivid, volatile—traced the runes etched along the metal. The air itself seemed to tense.
"What the—?" the leader barked, twisting in his seat. He swore, then snarled. "Run that sucker down!"
The driver whooped like a hyena and slammed the accelerator. The car shrieked forward, rattling violently as it barreled straight toward the lone figure. Bystanders gasped, some stumbling back, others frozen where they stood.
The young man didn't move.
Not until the last possible second.
He drove a boot into the cobblestones, anchoring himself, and tore the greatsword free in one smooth motion. Steam hissed. The blade flared. He pivoted and brought the weapon down. Not with the edge, but the flat.
The strike hit like a falling tower.
The front of the car crumpled downward with a deafening crunch, the chassis buckling under the sheer force. Tires tore free. Momentum launched the driver and the leader straight out the windshield in a spray of glass. Their bodies tumbled across the road with bone-rattling impact.
The car, now airborne, flipped over him.
He shifted his grip, twisted his stance, and sliced upward in a wide arc. The engine roared with him. Steel howled. The vehicle split cleanly in two, severed halves spinning apart as the remaining passengers were flung from the wreckage, hitting the cobblestones in broken, groaning heaps.
A heartbeat later, the mangled rear half of the car slammed into the street behind him and detonated. An eruption of fire and twisted metal lighting the morning sky. He stood amid the settling dust, greatsword resting on his shoulder, unmoved by the destruction he'd just carved into the world.
"You know, Torres," the young man said, turning toward the groaning pile of would-be thieves, "I'm real sure this isn't what your mamá had in mind when she told you to go pick up the tamales."
His mismatched eyes swept over the group, more disappointed than angry, as though this entire scene had personally inconvenienced him on a spiritual level. He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a long, weary groan.
"Seriously, what were you thinking? How am I supposed to show my face to that sweet old lady after I tell her I had to haul her boy off to a holding cell?" He gestured vaguely at Torres. "I mean, yeah, you earned it. You absolutely earned it. But come on, man."
Torres coughed, wiped the blood from his lip, and glared up at him. "Bastion…" His scowl deepened. "Or should I call you Lieutenant Reinhardt, hijo de puta?"
Bastion's gaze dropped to the dragon emblem stamped across Torres' shirt, and his expression tightened, irritation flashing across his features. "Godsdammit… does your mamá know you've thrown your lot in with the Red Dragons?" He shook his head slowly, disbelief edging into anger. "Shit, Torres. After what happened to your brother Anando, you'd think something would've gotten through that thick skull of yours."
He jabbed a finger toward him. "That woman works herself raw. Seven days a week, selling tacos, burritos, enchiladas, anything she can just to keep a roof over your heads, and this is what she gets in return? Her idiot son running with the Colors like he's begging to end up in the ground?" He clicked his tongue and looked away, jaw tight. "Ungrateful little asshole."
Torres staggered upright, fury flashing across his bruised face as he jabbed a finger toward Bastion. "You keep mamá outta your damned mouth, pendejo," he snarled, breath shaking with anger. "And 'sides, where d'you get off callin' me an asshole? You hit your head or somethin'? Forget what you Tower hijo de la fregadas did?"
He cleared his throat and spat in Bastion's direction, the gesture sharp and bitter. "You walkin' 'round playin' hero don't change nothin'. You're Tower. Always been, always gonna be. And after everythin' that's happened…" His lip curled, thinning into a cold sneer. "I may be Colors, but you." He jabbed a thumb toward his chest, "you're a thousand times worse than me. Worse than half the scum crawlin' through this whole damn city."
Bastion's gaze darkened at the young man's words.
"At this point, I'd have more respect for the Authority than for you Tower scum," Torres growled, the words rolling out rough and heated. "And I don't even like those slaver putas. So save your breath, cabrón, because you're the last damned person who ought to be preachin' to anyone about morality."
He pushed forward another step, unsteady but burning with fury, each breath scraping through his chest. "'Cause at the end of the day, no matter how many people you drag off the streets or how many speeches you give about doin' the right thing… you're still wearin' that damned badge, ain't you?"
Bastion merely shrugged, brushing a loose strand of hair from his eyes with a kind of tired, almost bored ease, as though the entire scene had already drained whatever patience he'd walked in with. "Alright, fine," he said as his gaze shifted toward the rest of the boys dragging themselves upright, still wobbling from the crash. "It's clear you're not gonna listen, so I'll make this simple enough that even your illiterate, dropout, punk-ass brains can process it."
He lifted his hands in a loose, almost casual gesture. "You boys got two options. Option A, you and your crew drop to your knees, hands behind your heads, and I'll haul you in nice and easy. No cracked ribs, no broken teeth, and no bruises you'll need a doctor's note for. Nobody has to get hurt any more than you already are."
Bastion's brow arched. "Or we go with Option B," he said. "You lot make the incredibly stupid decision to come at me, and I put every single one of you in a full body cast, sipping breakfast through a straw for the next six months." He lifted a finger, as though outlining a simple fact rather than a threat. "And that's before you even start serving your time."
His gaze cut back to Torres, narrowing with pointed emphasis. "As for you, you'd better pray your mamá doesn't send your dead ass straight back to the hospital the moment you get out."
The boys exchanged a glance. Silent, vicious agreement, before steel and wandwood flashed into their hands. Blades slid free. Knives gleamed. Wands pointed. A half-circle of snarling bravado closed in around him.
Torres stepped forward, dagger catching the low morning light, silver flashing like a promise of blood.
"How about we take Option C, cabron?" he sneered. "We carve you open and string your guts up like Yuletide garlands, eh?" He dragged his tongue across his teeth, hungry, wild. "Funny thing, back then, killing a Tower dog made us villains. Now?" He chuckled. "Nobody cares. Might even get a hot meal on the house. And we starvin'."
Bastion's eyes drifted briefly to the bystanders lining the street. Their faces were carved from the same stone. Cold, resentful, drawn tight with a disdain that spared neither criminal nor lawman. In their eyes, the Tower's badge weighed the same as a thief's knife.
He sighed once, almost disappointed, and then tightened his grip on the greatsword's hilt. A single twist of his wrist coaxed the crystalline engine inside to life. The blade roared, fire spilling along its edge in a molten glow.
"Well," Bastion murmured, lowering into his stance, boots braced against the cobblestone, "there goes my lunch."
The street seemed to hold its breath as Bastion and the young thieves squared off, every body drawn tight, every muscle braced as though the very air were a string pulled to the verge of snapping. Heat rippled off the flaming wreckage behind them, the burning chassis casting warped shadows that stretched long across the cobblestones. The breeze that drifted through carried the scent of smoke and dust, brushing across faces gone hard with anticipation.
Then, cutting through that tense stillness came a sound. A slow, rhythmic tapping. Not the hollow patter of a walking stick or the light skitter of wood. Something heavier, denser, striking stone with a weight that marked each step like punctuation. Heads turned first among the boys, then Bastion's gaze narrowed as an older man emerged from the thinning smoke.
Tall. Lanky. His posture casual, almost indifferent to the tableau of blades and fire before him. He wore a black shirt beneath a green canvas jacket, cargo shorts hanging loose against long legs. His face, clean shaven, deeply lined with age, held no expression at all. And his hair, a shock of snow-white, was neatly groomed, giving him an almost severe presence.
But it was his eyes that unsettled. Steel-grey, muted and dull, the kind that had long since stopped reflecting the world around them. Bastion's brow arched, instincts tightening like coiled wire. The boys, uncertain and irritated, shifted uneasily.
The cane stood out most of all.
Thick. Heavy. Ivory-pale with carvings etched along its length. Ancient patterns, temple-wall motifs, symbols too small to decipher yet undeniably old. The man's grip was relaxed, his taps unhurried as he advanced, boots scuffing lightly across the cobblestones. He walked straight through the group as though they didn't matter.
"What the hell?" Torres muttered, his dark gaze following the stranger as he passed them with a calm that bordered on unsettling.
The older man shuffled forward until the ivory tip of his cane tapped the front of Bastion's boot. He paused there, lifted his chin, and their eyes finally met.
"Oh, beg your pardon," he said. "Didn't see you standin' there. Heard all that hollerin' from down the road. Sounded like someone in uniform was takin' charge, so I figured you might know how to get to the Caerleon Precinct." He tilted his head. "Help an old fella out, would you?"
Bastion blinked, his expression tightening in bewilderment. "Wait… what?" He gestured vaguely toward the boys. "Look, old timer, I'm in the middle of a—"
A series of dull thuds cut him off. Bastion looked around the older man, eyes widening as every one of the thieves collapsed where they stood. Eyes rolling to white, limbs slack, bodies dropping as though their strings had been severed. Torres made a strangled sound, doubled over, retched a watery stream onto the cobblestones, then pitched forward, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
A cold, instinctive shiver crawled up Bastion's spine.
The old man hadn't moved. Not once. Not when he'd drifted past the five boys, not when they'd dropped like stones. Only the soft, measured taps of his cane had marked his passing, the gentle cadence of someone frail, blind, and harmless. Yet now he stood perfectly still, palms resting atop the carved ivory cane, his posture unchanged. No shifted weight, no tightened grip, not even the rise of a deeper breath.
His dull steel-grey eyes caught the flicker of firelight all the same. And though they gave nothing, saw nothing, there was an uncanny sense that he perceived far more than he should.
"Well, not anymore you ain't," the old man mused, giving the heap of unconscious boys a passing glance before returning his dull grey eyes to Bastion. "Kids today. Hell bent on becoming public pain in the asses instead of, I don't know, holding down a job." He sighed, shaking his head with weary disappointment. "Unbelievable."
Bastion stared, sweat gathering along his brow as he struggled to reconcile what he had just witnessed with the quiet stillness before him. If the old man had moved, Bastion hadn't seen so much as a blur, and at that speed, it should have been inhuman.
Instinctively, his mind leapt to Gryffindor and to Vis Vitalis, to the telltale hum of voltaic energy that always charged the air before a strike. But there was nothing. No warmth rising beneath his skin, no crackle of voltage in his fingertips, no static ripple across the street.
Just the old man, standing there as if he had been carved from the very stones of the city, cane resting beneath his palms, and not a trace of magic in the air. Behind them, the sirens wailed louder, echoing through the recovering streets of Caerleon.
The old man tapped his cane once.
"So," he said, as casually as if none of this had happened, "about that Precinct…"
****
The old man reached for Bastion's hand as he stepped out of the cab, his grip surprisingly firm for someone so frail, the carved cane resting in his other hand as his boots found steady purchase on the concrete. "Much obliged," he said with an easy grin, turning back toward the driver. He fished a gold coin from his pocket and pressed it into the man's palm. "Keep the change."
The driver stared at the coin, eyes wide and disbelieving, before managing a grateful nod just as the door shut. Crystalline exhaust hissed from the vehicle as it pulled away, leaving Bastion standing beside the old man, still feeling the coarse texture of that sandpaper palm against his arm. Ridges, scars, and calluses that told a lifetime's worth of stories Bastion couldn't begin to decipher.
Throughout the entire ride, Bastion had remained silent, stealing glances at the man whenever he thought he could get away with it. No matter how many times he replayed the earlier scene, he could not reconcile the frail figure beside him with what he had witnessed barely an hour ago.
The five boys had been unconscious before they even hit the ground, none of them seriously harmed, and every one of Bastion's colleagues had stared at him as though he were spinning a tale for amusement. Bastion himself was still struggling to accept it. The idea that this blind, brittle old wanderer had felled five armed delinquents without so much as a whisper of movement.
"I'm blind, kid," the old man said suddenly, "but even I can feel when someone's been staring holes into me for longer than courtesy allows."
Heat flooded Bastion's cheeks and he cleared his throat, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his head. "Sorry. Didn't mean anything by it."
The older man tilted his head as if listening to some faint, private thought. "You know, I never did get your name."
"Oh, right." Bastion straightened, brushing embers of embarrassment from his tone. "Reinhardt. Lieutenant Bastion Reinhardt."
The old man lifted an eyebrow, surprise warming into something almost nostalgic. "Reinhardt, eh?" A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well blow me down… the Wilhelm's little tyke's all grown up."
Bastion blinked, completely caught off guard. "I'm sorry, have we met?"
"Once," the man said with a soft chuckle, "a long time ago. Back when the old man was still knocking about. Couldn't shut him up when it came to you, either. Especially when we were deployed to Sarnac."
Bastion's eyes widened, breath catching in his chest. "Wait—you were at the Battle of Sarnac? With grandpa?"
"Well—" the old man began, the smile deepening as if he already knew the avalanche of questions waiting to fall.
"There you are!"
The exasperation in the voice carried clear across the plaza, pulling both the old man and Bastion toward its source.
At the top of the broad staircase leading to the precinct stood a halfling. Half their height yet managing to look twice as authoritative. Dressed in a dull green suit with a crisp white shirt and matching tie. A golden monocle glinted over his left eye, its chain disappearing neatly into his waistcoat pocket. His fiery red curls bounced with every indignant step as polished black loafers clacked down the stone stairs.
Bastion bit the inside of his cheek to suppress the laugh threatening to break loose; all he could see was a very offended leprechaun who had somehow taken a wrong turn on his way home.
He knew the man well enough, Finn O'Neill, Mayor Ramonda's assistant, administrator, and long-suffering executor of her will whenever age kept her from seeing to matters personally. Finn had been away during the Siege, trapped by the initial blockade while visiting family across Avalon. Though it had spared him from the horrors that followed, guilt had eaten at him so severely that he'd tried to resign more than once. Ramonda, steadfast as ever, refused to hear of it.
"I waited for you for hours at the station, yet you were nowhere to be found!" Finn huffed as he reached the final step above the ground, folding his arms while maintaining the advantage of the slight height difference. "Madame is both worried and thoroughly cross."
The old man chuckled, scratching the back of his head with a sheepishness that felt entirely genuine. "I'm truly sorry. First time back in Caerleon in years, you understand. Back then the air still smelled of the mountains. Now it smells like Camelot, sad thing, really."
"That is hardly an excuse, I—" Finn stopped mid-scold as his gaze shifted and landed on Bastion. "Oh! Lieutenant Reinhardt. Fancy meeting you here." His eyes darted between the two of them, monocle glinting. "I see you've already made one another's acquaintance."
"Something like that," Bastion said, resting a hand on his hip. "Found him while I was taking down a few bangers from the Red Dragons. They've been hitting the small shops on the far side again."
Finn groaned, removing his monocle and furiously polishing it on his shirt. "By the Old Gods, those blasted Colors gangs are spiraling out of control, and with the Tower stretched thinner than parchment, they've grown bold. With any luck, things will improve now that he is here."
"He?" Bastion raised an eyebrow, turning toward the old man.
"Oh! Right." Finn cleared his throat, as though mentally shuffling back to the point. "Bastion, allow me to introduce Colonel Elias Kane." He gestured toward the old man with a flourish. "He has just been elected the new Sheriff of Caerleon."
Bastion froze as though struck. His eyes snapped wide, jaw loosening before a single breath escaped him.
"Did you just say… Kane?"
Elias smiled. Small, wry, and maddeningly unreadable.