A sudden shuffle broke the familiar rhythm of dinner in the Great Hall. Chairs scraped hastily against stone floors, the clatter of cutlery forgotten as students stood, murmuring in anxious waves. Small clusters began to form around those holding spherical comm-orbs, each one flickering to life in eerie synchrony.
Godric paused; brows furrowed. Jeanne mirrored his confusion, half-risen from her seat. All around them, the orbs pulsed—dozens of them, illuminating startled faces with cold, flickering light. A familiar voice boomed through the hall, its tone precise, clipped, and heavy with manufactured gravity.
"Citizens of Caerleon, I am Lamar Burgess, Director of the Clock Tower. And tonight, this city—your city—faces a dire and unprecedented threat."
Jeanne hurried toward the nearest cluster of students, weaving between bodies until she could peer over a shoulder. The holographic projection hovered above them, crystal clear. Lamar Burgess sat at a pristine mahogany desk, the surface polished to a mirror shine—reflecting the same rigid, calculated image he always projected. His fingers were steepled before him, elbows sharp on the wood, while behind him the emblem of the Tower loomed like a shadow. Floating teletexts scrolled beside him, flashing headlines: Norsefire Deployed, Citywide Lockdown, Martial Law Declared.
His face was stone. Not impassioned, not grim. Just final. As if what he was about to say had already been carved in the headstone.
Jeanne swallowed hard. A chill ran down her spine as the first drop of cold sweat traced her cheek.
"I am certain many of you are already aware of the band of assassins who call themselves Nemesis," Lamar went on. "A coalition of murderers and anarchists who have waged a vicious crusade against the Tower… against the very institutions that preserve order and safeguard our way of life."
Godric's jaw tightened. Every syllable scraped across his nerves, each one carefully chosen to rewrite the truth, to cloak tyranny in silk. He could feel it—rage burning beneath his skin. The same voice that signed death warrants now posing as a steward of justice.
"For months, I withheld the full extent of their atrocities to preserve morale," Lamar continued. "But no longer. The leader of this violent sect… is none other than Asriel Valerian. The so-called Terror of Death. A convicted murderer, once sentenced to die for his unspeakable deeds almost a decade ago."
A collective gasp swept across the hall like a wind. Whispers rose, swelling into excited chatter—some stunned, others vindicated in their suspicions.
"But let it be known," Lamar's words grew colder, "this incursion shall not go unanswered. This affront to our peace, our unity, will be met with decisive force. As of this moment, I have declared martial law in Caerleon."
The Great Hall erupted. Students turned to one another, disbelief and dread writ large across their faces. The atmosphere thickened, a slow-moving panic threading through the crowd.
Godric's eyes narrowed further, shifting to Údar and Cu. The two watched in silence, unreadable—but not unfeeling. He knew that look. He wore it too.
"All movement in and out of the city is hereby suspended," Lamar continued. "A curfew will be enforced. Any violation will be met with immediate action. To ensure order, I have redeployed a specialist unit—Norsefire."
Jeanne's eyes widened. The name itself meant little to her—but the ripple it sent through the hall said everything. Conversations fell silent mid-sentence. Students froze, backs stiffening as if an unseen weight had settled on their shoulders. At the faculty table, Professor Lagduf and Eridan exchanged a brief, unsettled glance before rising from their seats without a word. Their cutlery clinked quietly against porcelain as they were set down—an oddly final sound. Without hesitation, the two strode toward the staff entrance, their robes trailing behind them.
"A unit forged during the Camelot Insurrection. Tried. Proven. Effective."
Lamar persisted, unwavering. "Tonight, we must remain steadfast. We must remain resolute. But above all else—we must remain united."
His words rang with the hollow gravity of rehearsed conviction. "In these trying times, I ask each of you to offer your complete and unquestioning obedience. Do so, and I give you my word… nothing shall befall you."
There was a pause. Then the mask slipped.
"However—those caught defying curfew… those found offering shelter, information, or assistance to these criminals—will be deemed collaborators. And they will be prosecuted as terrorists."
Jeanne's lips parted slightly, breath catching as the words settled like frost in her chest. Across the hall, students shifted uneasily.
"Tonight, Caerleon… I offer you my most solemn vow. That justice will be swift. It will be righteous. And it will be without mercy."
The feed cut. Silence swallowed the Great Hall.
For a single moment, no one moved. No one dared speak. Then—like the first stirrings of wind before a storm—voices rose. Whispers became murmurs, murmurs became frantic conversations. Some students rushed to the exits, slipping past benches with barely a glance, clutching their comm-orbs tight, already trying to contact friends, family—anyone they feared might be caught outside.
Jeanne remained frozen; hands curled tight at her side. Godric didn't move. He barely breathed. Every muscle coiled beneath his skin, tight with fury, his jaw clenched so hard it ached.
His thoughts drifted back to the rooftop. To Asriel's words. The storm on the horizon. The warning veiled in smoke and steel.
He understood now.
The Tower hadn't just drawn its sword.
It had buried it in the heart of the city—and Caerleon had become the scabbard it meant to bleed dry.
****
As the suspended emerald-green holographic screen dissolved into drifting flecks of light, Salazar sat upright in his hospital bed. His back leaned against the raised frame; shoulders pressed firm to the sterile woolen sheets draped across his lap. Fingers steepled, he rested his chin atop them in quiet contemplation. Beyond the door, he could hear the growing clamor—shuffling feet, panic swelling like the crescendo of a symphony.
He had expected this. From the moment Bran had spoken of the Sword of Damocles… of Nemesis… and of Asriel Valerian, it had only been a matter of time before the cracks beneath the Tower's polished veneer began to split wide open.
His gaze drifted to the window, to the city lights shimmering beyond the glass. A deceptive calm hung over Caerleon like a drawn breath, poised to shatter beneath the weight of the storm bearing down.
Salazar could feel it in his bones—an inevitability that loomed not just over them, but over every soul who had grown comfortable in the lull of peace. He'd seen it before: fear-drenched decisions by men who believed themselves untouchable, cloaked in power so tightly they forgot they were only men.
Lamar Burgess was no different.
Now, as desperation eclipsed reason, the Tower had chosen the only course it had ever truly known—scorch the field to root out the few, never mind who burned in the process. The image of it—noble ideals reduced to ash beneath the heel of fear—was almost poetic in its absurdity. A bitter chuckle rose in Salazar's throat.
So, this is how it begins. Not with courage. Not with justice.
But with smoke. And fire.
The subtle sensation of something slithering across the blanket drew Salazar's attention downward. Nirah coiled into his lap, her pale scales a stark contrast against the drab hospital sheets. She hissed softly, tongue flicking, her serpent eyes fixed on him with quiet intent.
"I've been better, my dear," Salazar murmured, a wry chuckle escaping him as a twitch of pain flickered across his face. He shifted slightly, careful not to aggravate the wound beneath his ribs. "Much as it pains me to admit, I'm still far from adequate in single combat—particularly when matched against a seasoned swordsman."
His gaze flicked toward the door, where distant shouting bled through the corridor like wind slipping through a cracked window. The tension was mounting. Voices were raised. Orders barked. Footsteps rushed. A theatre of panic just beyond his reach.
"I take it you've heard the news?" he asked.
Nirah answered with a low hiss.
Salazar nodded, unsurprised. "Of course. The castle must be buzzing. Half in denial, the other half in full-bore hysteria. Human nature—what a fickle thing." He tapped a finger to his chin in thought. "Though the name… Norsefire, that's familiar. I can't recall the full context, but I know it's not the sort of name you whisper fondly at supper." He scoffed. "But names are immaterial. Dress thuggery in the finest uniforms, paint them in authority and pageantry, and it doesn't change what they are."
Nirah's eyes narrowed, another hiss escaping her.
"Will they go after the students?" Salazar repeated, amusement curling in his tone. "Oh, undoubtedly. And when they do, Headmaster Blaise will be forced to choose where he stands."
His gaze returned to the window. The sky outside had darkened to a bruised grey, the light of the city flickering like distant embers against storm clouds.
"And something tells me," he said, a knowing smirk forming on his lips, "that choice will be rather... spectacular."
Nirah tilted her head, tongue flicking.
"Oh, don't you worry," Salazar added. "We won't be spectators in what's to come. We still have a score to settle." His smile faded to something colder. "And I owe our dear Sheriff a proper rebuttal."
****
The whistling in his ears was deafening—a high, piercing note that muted the world into a distant echo. Each breath dragged through his lungs, slow and ragged, burning like coal smoke in his chest. Blood clung to his fingers, thick and gritty with sand, seeping from somewhere—his face, his chest, his side—but whose blood it was, he couldn't say. His clothes were torn, shredded by blade and bone, the remnants of armor hanging from broken buckles like the tattered remnants of a fallen banner.
Asriel's eyes scanned the arena.
Bodies. Nearly two dozen, strewn across the sand in various states—crumpled, bloodied, twitching, or deathly still. Some groaned faintly. Others didn't move at all. At his feet lay the last of them: a mountain of a man who once stood untouchable—Argon the Despoiler. The name was whispered like a curse throughout The Congregation. A terror. A champion. A god among boys.
But now, he was just another ruin on the field.
The memories trickled back—painfully at first, then all at once. The weight of his claymore, slick with blood. The hilt warm in his grip. The distant roar of a crowd breaking into frenzy, their voices rising in unison, chanting his name loud enough to shake the sky.
Valerian. Valerian. Valerian.
Yes. Now he remembered. The challenge. The jeers. The warnings.
They called him reckless—mad, even. A Third Year, throwing his name into the pit to challenge the most feared student in Excalibur. They'd laughed behind his back. Said he'd be carried out in pieces.
They didn't laugh now.
Argon's legend had stretched across Avalon. His clan name was etched into stone, their deeds laced with horror and blood. But Asriel didn't flinch. He'd faced worse—men with darker hearts and colder steel. Argon, for all his titles and glory, was just another rung on the ladder. Another name to be crossed out. Another throne to tear down.
And tear it down, he did.
The battle had been chaos incarnate. Argon's entire entourage had descended upon him first—steel meeting steel, fists cracking bone. Asriel fought like a beast possessed, each strike of his blade a thunderclap, each blow carving flesh and soul alike. One by one, they fell. And when only Argon remained, the colossus met him head-on.
Two titans. One arena.
Argon wielded a monstrous weapon, half sword, half mace, lined with jagged teeth that could cleave a beast in half. His strikes could fell trees. But Asriel endured. His claymore rose to meet it, sparks flying from every collision, each clash shaking the very sands beneath them. Their battle cries were monstrous—inhuman. The sound of war made flesh.
But in the end, only one remained standing.
The crowd was on its feet, thunderous, unrelenting.
Valerian! Valerian! Valerian!
"The winner!" the announcer cried. "And your new Chair of the High Table… Asriel Valerian! The Terror of Death!"
And there he stood, chest heaving, blade dripping, the sand beneath him soaked in legend.
****
The bells of the Excalibur clock tower tolled, each brass gong reverberating through the ancient stone walls like the heartbeat of the academy itself. Their echoes rolled down the corridors, stirring students from their seats as they spilled out into the halls in loose clusters—some half-lost in laughter, others weighed down by the looming shadow of assignments and lectures still unfinished.
Among them, Asriel stepped through the arched doorway of his classroom, the heavy thud of his boots muffled by the polished floors. His satchel hung from one shoulder, stuffed to the seams with tomes and scrolls, its weight negligible compared to the steel giant strapped across his back. The claymore, five feet of polished silver from pommel to point, gleamed with the dying amber light of the setting sun that streamed through the high windows, casting long shadows against the walls.
He walked with a familiar hunch, his shoulders sagged and head tilted slightly down—a habit carved into him from years of battle, of solitude, of carrying burdens that weren't his to bear. The hallway parted around him like a tide. Conversations died mid-sentence. Laughter faded. Eyes widened. Smiles vanished. Some students turned heel immediately, slipping through side doors, while others pressed themselves to the walls, avoiding his gaze as if proximity alone might draw his ire.
Asriel didn't blame them.
It wasn't just the bandages that still clung to his cheek and temple, or the cold expression he wore like armor. It was the name. The title. The Terror Of Death. The whispers had spread fast—Agron the Despoiler, the undefeated Chair of the Congregation, brought low in open challenge. In one week, the entire academy had learned not just of the victory, but of the brutality. The way Asriel had dismantled Agron's retinue. The way he stood alone in the arena, blood-slicked and breathing, when the dust had finally settled.
The stories traded among students were often exaggerated, colored by bravado and rumor—but beneath the layers of myth, there lingered an unmistakable thread of truth. It had taken days to clean the arena. The sand, once pale and coarse, had turned to sludge—so thick with blood it more resembled mud than grain. Groundskeepers had carted away three full barrows of remains: severed fingers, shattered teeth, pieces of ears, and unidentifiable chunks of flesh. But it was Argon that lingered most in memory—hauled to the Hospital Wing in pieces. His limbs were too mangled for even simple magic to repair and had to be severed entirely before they could be regrown.
To this day, the head physician refused to believe one man had wrought so much devastation alone. Needless to say, they feared him now. Even the Visionaries themselves were no doubt paying attention.
He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. Maybe this was a mistake after all.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Two figures trailing him at a distance, subtle as thunderclaps.
Laxus Dryfus and Bran Ravenclaw.
Of course.
The two had been shadowing him for days now—hovering at the edges of his path, never quite close enough to confront, but never far enough to be forgotten. Laxus, all swagger and smirking bravado, walked like the world owed him applause. Bran, by contrast, was quiet, meticulous, always watching—as if every word and movement were part of a grander equation only he could solve.
Asriel knew it wasn't malice that drove them. Nor vengeance. No, what they wanted was something far more insufferable.
Connection. Friendship.
He scoffed under his breath. They're wasting their time.
Whatever piece of him they thought they saw—whatever flicker of kinship they hoped to fan into flame—was long dead. Buried beneath steel, blood, and everything he had left behind.
"Pests," he muttered, turning sharply down a side corridor without sparing them a glance. "Keep walking. Maybe they'll take the hint."
And he kept walking, veering off toward the longer, quieter path back to the Ferrum dorms. The scenic route, as he'd come to call it—not for the view, but for the solace. He knew Laxus well enough by now. The moment his stomach started grumbling, the game would end. The predator-prey routine would break, and Asriel would have a few hours of peace again.
He still remembered his first day at Excalibur. Not the grandeur of the towers or the sprawling city which surrounded it—but the stillness. The silence. That was what unsettled him most. It wasn't the unfamiliar corridors or the gazes of strangers. It was how peaceful it all was.
He couldn't recall a time when he didn't have to sleep with one eye open, fingers curled around steel. A moment of stillness hadn't been a blessing—it had been a death sentence. You lowered your guard, and you died. That was the law of the world he knew. Even now, the memory clung to him like sweat. The mattress in his dorm had been too soft, too clean. It felt like a lie. He'd tossed it aside and slept on the cold stone floor, where the ache in his back at least reminded him that he was still alive.
But the sunlight here... it was different. Gentle. Warm. A stark contrast to the bite of rain on flesh, the weight of mud underfoot, and the reek of blood clogging his senses. The rot, the screams, the endless trench of death—none of it reached him here. No matter how many times he scrubbed his skin raw, he still carried it, but Excalibur dulled the edge. A little.
For the first time in his life, he wasn't a weapon.
Not a killer.
Not a name whispered in fear.
Here, within these stone walls and iron traditions... he was just Asriel Valerian.
Just a student.
At least, until he took his claymore to Argon's skull and claimed his place at the High Table for himself.
The memory hit him like a blow to the back of the head. He slapped his palm against his temple, bracing himself against the stone wall. His claymore felt impossibly heavy on his back as he ground his teeth. In that instant of victory, he'd traded his last shred of peace for an unwanted throne—and he still wasn't sure it had been worth it.
"Stupid. Stupid. Stupid fool," he spat into the twilight shadows. "What were you thinking? You should've just—"
A sharp cry echoed down the corridor. Asriel stopped.
It was the unmistakable sound of pain—raw, trembling, sharp enough to cut through stone. He turned, eyes narrowing as the source came into view. Down the hall, lit only by the golden hue of the setting sun bleeding in through the high windows, a group of students stood huddled in a semicircle—three elven girls and a boy. Towering, sneering, unmistakably cruel. At the center of it, curled and trembling like a leaf in the wind, was another elven girl in House Ventus blue. Her hair—long, golden, majestic—was tangled in the iron grip of the ringleader.
His gaze dropped to the floor, where books and parchment lay strewn in chaos—pages torn, scrolls crumpled, ink bleeding into the stone in widening pools. Quills lay shattered like snapped bones, their feathers mangled. Amid the mess, a torn satchel slumped open, its contents half-spilled. But it was the lilies that held his eye—white once, now crushed and bruised beneath a heavy bootprint, their petals wilted and stained black with ink and dirt, as if even their innocence had been trampled.
"I've told you before—and I'll keep telling you until it sticks," the lead girl spat, yanking the girl's hair so hard it snapped her head back. Her eyes gleamed with cruelty. "You don't belong here. What part of that is so hard for you to understand?"
A resounding smack followed, the sound echoing against the stone like a whipcrack. The girl let out a muffled cry, her cheek blossoming red, tears streaking down in silence.
"Elves are meant to be perfect. Beautiful," the ringleader continued. "And then there's you, uanui. What were your parents thinking, letting something like you out in public?"
The others laughed—mean, sharp laughs that didn't come from amusement but from power.
"Damaged goods should be kept out of sight, not paraded around in uniform."
Asriel's boots ground to a halt.
His eyes dropped to the floor. The shadows in the corridor stretched long and unnatural, darker than they should have been beneath the waning light. His fingers twitched. Memories crept in—unbidden, unwanted—bleeding through like cracks in old stone. The sting of each word. The echo of fists. Men in armor. Grinning, twisted mouths slick with satisfaction as they beat down those too weak to stand. Stripping them of supplies, dignity—everything. And their laughter—Gods, their laughter—thick and cruel, drunk on the certainty that no one would ever make them pay.
Asriel's grip tightened around the strap of his satchel. He knew this. He'd seen it play out too many times. And he knew exactly how it ends.
The Ventus girl whimpered, trying to scramble back, her hands shaking.
"Why are you doing this?" she pleaded, voice cracking. "I haven't done anything to you… to any of you. All I ever wanted was to be part of Excalibur. I only wanted to—"
The second slap landed harder than the first, cutting her words short with a sharp gasp. Her head snapped to the side, hair whipping across her face as she staggered.
"No one asked what you wanted, uanui," the ringleader snarled. "And frankly nobody gives a damn."
She shoved the girl backward, letting her fall like discarded refuse. The girl hit the floor hard, arms curled around her midsection, one hand trembling as it clutched her stinging cheek. Her body shook, whether from pain, fear, or both was hard to tell—but no one watching seemed to care.
"You know," the ringleader said, casually resting a hand on her hip, "we did try to play nice at first. The teasing, the whispers, the little rumors—that's schoolyard fare. Harmless." She leaned forward, her smile sharpening. "But you—you just had to act like none of it mattered."
Her words dropped, bitter and coiled with contempt. "You'd think that after fishing your stuff out of the lake the first time, thought it would've made it clear. But instead of learning your place, you went and ran your mouth to the faculty."
The Ventus girl's eyes went wide, her voice trembling. "No! I didn't—I swear, I would never—!"
"Oh, save it," one of the other girls snapped. "You're not talking your way out of this. Not this time."
The ringleader's grin returned, but it held no warmth. "Two weeks in detention," she said. "And now... you're going to pay for it." She turned to the boy and grinned.
He stepped forward, a cruel smirk curling on his lips. His hand slid beneath his robe and drew a stiletto—slim, elegant, five inches of polished silver glinting like a serpent's fang. It caught the amber glow of the setting sun just right, gleaming with promise.
"Time to give you something to remember, sweetheart."
Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow. Trembling limbs scrambled against the floor, boots slipping as she backed away—until her shoulders struck the wall. Trapped. Nowhere left to run.
"No… no, please—" she sobbed. "Don't do this—"
The ringleader folded her arms, brushing her bangs aside with a flick of disdain. "We should've ended this properly the first time," she said coldly. "When we're through, they won't just whisper behind your back. They'll scream at the sight of you."
The boy knelt beside the girl, his eyes alight with malice. "Let's put a smile on that face," he sneered, seizing her chin with one hand as the blade hovered just inches from her skin.
And then, a blur. A shadow broke through the corridor like a flash of thunder. In an instant, the boy was yanked back by the hair—no warning, no breath. His face smashed into the wall with a sickening crack, blood spraying across the stone like spilled ink. The knife clattered to the floor, forgotten.
Asriel didn't stop.
Another slam. Then another. The boy didn't get the chance to scream. He couldn't. There was no space between impacts, no mercy between strikes. One of the girls shrieked—a high, panicked cry that echoed down the corridor as they backed into each other, their bravado collapsing into raw fear.
The boy's head met the wall again with a sickening thud, the sound of bone splintering beneath skin. A tooth spun out and bounced once on the floor before settling near the girl's boot. Blood smeared like thick brushstrokes, painting the stone crimson.
Asriel's face was speckled with it. He didn't blink.
Only when the boy's body went limp did Asriel let go. The attacker crumpled to the ground like a sack of butchered meat—his jaw misshapen, one eye already swollen shut, crimson pouring from his nose in steady drips.
Silence. Cold, absolute.
Asriel straightened and turned. The light caught his face—blank and unreadable—and the silver edge of the massive claymore strapped to his back glinted like a silent omen.
His gaze locked on the girls.
They stared. Wide-eyed. Breath caught in their throats. Frozen—not by the violence they'd witnessed, but by something deeper. A primal instinct, old as fire and fangs.
Then they screamed.
All three turned to bolt, panic overtaking reason but Asriel was faster.
He let his satchel drop with a heavy thud, one hand already shooting out. He grabbed the ringleader by the hair and yanked her backward so hard her feet nearly lifted off the ground. She shrieked, stumbling as he drew his wand with the other.
"Imperio."
The word left him like ice. The two girls stopped mid-step. Their limbs went stiff, heads jerking slightly as if tugged by invisible strings.
"Turn around," he commanded.
They obeyed. Mechanical. Lifeless. Tears slipped down their cheeks, but their faces remained eerily blank, as though the horror hadn't yet caught up to their bodies.
"Let me go!" the ringleader screamed, clawing at his wrist. "Let me go, you freak!"
Asriel didn't answer. He slammed her into the wall, the crack of her spine hitting stone sharp as a whipcrack. She gasped, stunned, until his hand locked around her throat. Her legs kicked uselessly beneath her. Fingers dug at his grip. Her face contorted—red, then purple—as the pressure built. Her eyes bulged with fear, no longer cruel, no longer smug.
Just afraid.
"S-stop... y-you… you can't—" the ringleader gasped, her words sputtering through clenched teeth as saliva streaked the corner of her mouth. Her breaths came in wheezing, ragged bursts, every inhale a desperate fight.
Asriel's grip tightened. Just enough to choke off the rest of her protest.
"Cruelty comes easily to those who've never known it," he said. "To those who've never felt the weight of a boot grinding into their spine."
With a flick of his wand, the stiletto clattered up from the floor, levitating in the air like a silver fang. He caught it in his hand, the polished blade gleaming. He put away his wand and raised the stiletto—its tip hovering just before her eye. The girl froze. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream, tears streaming as her pupil trembled, fixated on the edge.
"The cold grip of terror," he murmured. "It paralyzes. Makes you forget how to breathe. That's what it feels like, doesn't it? When you know you can't run. When you know no one's coming." He tilted his head slightly. "Now, shall I put a smile on that face?"
The other girls whimpered—sharp, broken noises like birds with crushed wings. The Ventus girl, however, only looked on, too petrified to move.
Asriel's eyes turned to iron. "Look at me." He turned the girl's face, forcing her gaze up to his. "Look at him." He motioned to the boy still crumpled and bloodied at their feet. "If any of you—any of your friends—so much as breathe near her again…"
He leaned in, his lips nearly brushing her ear. "They'll never find what's left of you."
Then his gaze flicked to the other two girls—glassy-eyed, trembling, still bound by the spell.
"That goes for all of you."
Asriel released his grip. The ringleader crumpled to her knees, clutching her throat. Wet, rasping coughs tore from her lungs as she gasped for breath, eyes wide with panic, her body shuddering with every wheeze. Her hands trembled against the floor, fingers scraping for purchase, for dignity.
At that moment, the spell broke.
The other two girls stumbled free of the Imperius curse, as if a weight had been ripped off their backs. For a heartbeat, they stood frozen—haunted, breathless. Then, without a word, they turned and bolted down the corridor, shoes skidding on the stone as they fled. Their footfalls echoed off the walls before vanishing into silence.
Asriel stood motionless for a moment longer, then slowly let the stiletto slip from his fingers. It hit the floor with a soft metallic clatter.
He turned.
There she was, still curled up tight against the wall, arms wrapped around her legs, shaking. Her golden hair clung to her tear-streaked cheeks, and her shoulders rose and fell with shallow, panicked breaths.
Asriel's eyes softened just slightly. The fire hadn't left him, but the storm had passed—for now.
He stepped closer and offered his hand. "Are you alright—"
The words caught in his throat.
His eyes landed on her face—more specifically, what was left of it. A scar, jagged and cruel, carved down the right side from brow to jaw. The skin there was tight, warped, as if seared by molten iron. It hadn't healed clean. No healing magic had touched it. No effort made to hide it.
The girl saw the pause in his expression. She flinched, eyes falling away. A familiar sorrow settled in her features. The kind worn by someone used to disgust.
Still, she took his hand.
Her fingers were light—soft, like the petals of a frostbitten flower. Fragile, but not broken. Asriel pulled her to her feet. Her head dipped; her gaze fixed on the floor.
"T-thank you," she whispered.
He said nothing.
The silence between them stretched as he withdrew his hand, turning to walk away.
"W-wait," she called softly. "What about him?" Her hand gestured toward the bloodied boy crumpled on the ground.
Asriel stopped, glancing over his shoulder.
"What about him?"
She hesitated. "I mean… shouldn't we do something? Get help?"
Asriel's gaze drifted back to the unconscious form, blood pooling under his cheek. "Don't worry. The janitor'll come by eventually." A pause. "Cleaning up garbage is his job."
The girl stared at him, unsure whether to be horrified or amused.
"Oh," she said. Then after a beat, "Can I at least know your name? I'm Tala… Tala Seh'lai. Second Year. House Ventus."
He turned slowly to face her fully. The faintest quirk of a brow.
"Asriel," he said. "Asriel Valerian."
She smiled.
He didn't.
But that was the day they met. A moment scorched into memory—one neither of them would ever forget.
****
Asriel opened his eyes, the scent of old stone and spring air filling his lungs. The chill clung to the walls of the watchtower, but it grounded him—it was honest. Tangible. Wrapped around his wrist like a silver cuff, the chain of his locket glinted in the crystal light. In his open palm, the tiny photograph flickered—he and Tala in quiet embrace, a moment carved out of time, looping endlessly.
He exhaled slowly and turned his gaze outward, over the city stretching far below. Smoke climbed in thin, steady ribbons from half a dozen points across the darkened skyline. Fires smoldered behind broken walls and shattered windows. Sirens keened faintly through the wind, distant but constant, like some low wailing beast. The golden light of dawn bled across Caerleon, but it could not mask the wounds left in its flesh.
It had begun.
Three days since Burgess announced martial law. Three days since Norsefire stepped from its grave, and just as Asriel had warned, the people had not knelt—they'd fought back. He had seen the footage: crowds driven into alleys, armored boots striking indiscriminately, black truncheons slick with blood. It was control dressed as order. Repression parading as justice. And behind it all, Hartshorne and his loyal bastards, turning the city inside out to find them.
Asriel's jaw clenched. It wouldn't be long before they found this place too.
Then—a sudden, sharp gasp broke through the silence.
He spun, eyes landing on the cot by the western window. The springs screamed as Isha thrashed violently, her back arched, sweat slick on her brow.
"Gunnar!" she cried out. "Gunnar—!"
Asriel was at her side in seconds, gripping her shoulders gently. "Easy," he murmured. "It's alright. You're safe."
Her eyes snapped open—wild, panicked. "Asriel?" she breathed, her gaze darting across the room, still locked in some memory. "Where is he? Where's Gunnar?!"
The question hit him like a slap. He hesitated, then slowly looked away.
"I don't know," he said. "You were the only one who made it back. You've been unconscious for nearly a week."
"A week?" she whispered, stunned. "I remember… he couldn't. His power, it… it was fading. He told me to run. He told me to go and I… I left him…"
She buried her face in her hands. "Gods, I'm sorry, Gunnar. I should've—"
"Do not burden yourself with guilt, little one."
A deep, gravelly voice broke the moment.
They both turned to see Orgrim standing at the edge of the bed. Bandages covered most of his hulking frame, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He moved with the slow purpose of a man who'd stared death in the face and walked away only half intact.
"We all knew the risks," Orgrim said quietly. "What lay waiting at the end of this dark, lonely road when we chose to walk it. Nemesis gave us something no one else would—choice. Freedom. A chance to fight back, to make the wrong things right, and we took it… no matter the cost."
He stepped forward, his towering form casting a shadow across the modest chamber. His eyes, weary but unwavering, fixed on the others.
"Like us, he burned for vengeance. And he embraced it. Gladly. He's done his part."
There was a pause. A silence so heavy it pressed against their lungs.
"Whatever happens, whatever comes next, we honor him not with grief… but by ensuring it wasn't for nothing."
Isha, still curled against the edge of the bed, wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. The grief hadn't left, not really, but it was quiet now. Focused.
"You're right," she said softly, then turned to Asriel. "So… is it time?"
Asriel said nothing for a long moment. His gaze drifted back toward the window, to the burning skyline where sirens sang in the distance like the wail of ghosts. Then he nodded.
"They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks," he muttered. "And Lamar Burgess is the oldest mutt in the kennel. Predictable. Ruthless. Consistent." He turned to face them fully, eyes sharp. "I studied him. Studied the Tower. Every move, every tactic. I knew an attack on Hartshorne—especially at a place like the Stelios—would be enough to back him into a corner."
He gestured toward the city. "And like clockwork, he's shut the gates, declared martial law, and sent his hounds sniffing for us."
Orgrim folded his arms. "They call them Norsefire. His personal enforcers. No oversight. No chains. Just orders—and permission to kill."
Isha's brow furrowed. "I've heard stories. The older folk in the slums used to speak of them… like ghosts from a darker time. They did horrible things to the people of Camelot."
"Horrible doesn't even scratch the surface," Asriel replied, rising from the bed. The mattress creaked under the weight of his armored frame. "But this… all of it… it was all by design."
He reached into his coat and drew out a narrow, obsidian device no larger than a finger. Smooth, cold, and etched with runes that glimmered faintly in the dim light.
"By now, public trust in the Tower is crumbling. The world's watching Caerleon with bated breath. They smell the rot, feel the smoke." His fingers curled tightly around the device. "And when the moment comes—when every lie the Tower's told begins to collapse under its own weight—we strike. The final blow."
He looked to them both.
Then, softer, Asriel murmured, "For Tala. And for everyone that bastard ever hurt."
His gaze shifted to Isha. "For Arno."
A smile touched her lips at the name, bittersweet and shining with memory.
He turned to Orgrim. "For your family."
Orgrim's arms folded across his chest as a quiet smile crept into his expression. "Looks like we're nearing the end of the road." He nodded once. "If this is the last moment of peace we're granted… I want you both to know, it's been an honor. Fighting alongside you." His voice wavered with the weight of sentiment. "And I wouldn't—"
Asriel raised a hand, his eyes locking toward the staircase with sudden focus. Orgrim froze mid-sentence. The breath left Isha's chest as her head snapped toward the same direction.
Silence fell. The kind that howls louder than sound. And then—
"They're here," Asriel whispered.
A split second later, a deafening boom shattered the stillness. The tower's foundation trembled as the front door below exploded inward—shockwaves tearing through the stone, raining dust and splinters from the ceiling above.
The war had found them.