The floorboards groaned and thundered beneath the onslaught of boots—dozens of them, clad in black steel and crimson trim, the soldiers of Norsefire flooding the stairwell like a tidal wave of iron. The entire watchtower shook under their weight, old timbers screaming in protest as the siege pressed higher.
Asriel met them head-on.
His blade danced in the firelight—blackened steel flashing through smoke and blood, carving clean arcs through flesh, slicing bone with terrifying precision. Each stroke left a smear across the walls, the lifeless falling in his wake. The room was ablaze now, the heat pressing against their skin, casting everything in gold and orange. Smoke curled through shattered windows, billowing skyward like a signal to the gods.
Orgrim's roar shook the rafters.
The orc swung his war hammer with brutal force, each strike pulverizing steel and skull alike. Helmets crumpled like tin. Bones snapped audibly. Blood sprayed across the stone floor as he drove the enemy back with sheer rage, turning the stairwell into a slaughterhouse. When one soldier came too close, Orgrim seized him by the throat, lifted him like a doll, and flung his body into the mass of armored men trying to force their way upward. They tumbled backward, a chorus of grunts and screams echoing down the stairwell.
Without missing a beat, Orgrim turned and grabbed a dresser from beside the wall, muscles bulging as he hauled it above his head. With a guttural cry, he hurled it down the staircase. Wood splintered. Bones cracked. A fresh wave of screams followed as the makeshift blockade slammed into the troops below, pinning several against the walls.
"It won't hold them long," Orgrim growled, stepping into the center of the room, smoke and sweat clinging to his scarred skin. Asriel stood beside him, blade soaked in red, withdrawing it from the ribs of a fallen soldier. "They've brought a godsdamned legion."
Isha crouched behind an overturned table, drawing another blackened arrow, her hands trembling. "How did they find us?" she whispered. "Did I… did I lead them here?"
"No," Asriel said sharply, gaze locked on the stairwell. "Hartshorne's reach stretches further than we thought. His bloodhounds know how to sniff out ghosts. Frankly, I'm surprised it took them this long."
"Then let them come," Orgrim snarled, his boots crunching across broken glass. He rolled his shoulders with a thunderous crack. "We'll return them to their masters in a heap of broken bones and teeth."
"Under normal circumstances, I'd say the same," Asriel replied, casting a side glance at the soaked bandages wrapped tightly around Orgrim's midsection. "But our magic's nearly spent. The Sword won't hold out much longer, and if it falters… we all fall."
From below, they heard shouting—orders being barked, boots reforming ranks, the sharp scrape of steel dragged across stone. The resistance wouldn't last much longer. The blockade had merely delayed the inevitable.
Smoke burned Isha's eyes. She coughed, pulling the crook of her arm over her mouth as the flames crackled louder. The fire had begun to eat its way through the far wall. A long silence fell over the room.
Orgrim looked down at the dark stain blooming across his ribs. His breath came heavy. His expression tightened. Slowly, he looked to Asriel—then to Isha.
"You're right," he said. "Asriel—take her. Go."
"What? No!" Isha whipped her head in his direction. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her bow tight, fingers trembling. "Orgrim—what are you saying?"
Orgrim's eyes, deep and somber yet unwavering, met hers. "I'm saying you need to live. Both of you." He spoke softly. "I'll hold the line and buy you the time you need."
"Don't do this," Isha pleaded. "We're not leaving you here!"
Orgrim's gaze softened, a gentle calm breaking through his hardened exterior. "I was as good as dead in that cave when you found me," he said. "You pulled me from a grave, Asriel. Gunnar, Isha—all of you gave this old orc purpose again. You gave me a reason to keep fighting. Most importantly, you reminded me there was still some strength left within these old bones."
Isha turned desperately to Asriel. "Say something! Stop him!"
Asriel stood frozen, his sword quivering slightly in his grasp. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, anguish visible in the tightening lines around his eyes. But slowly, painfully, he stilled, accepting the harsh truth of the moment.
"They'll tear this tower apart before the hour's out," Orgrim continued, turning resolutely towards the stairwell. He tightened his grip on his hammer, knuckles creaking beneath his gloves. "But not before I take a few dozen more with me. Everything we've fought for—everything I've endured—has led me to this moment. Let me finish this."
Asriel's eyes met Orgrim's, a silent exchange passing between them. Recognition. Respect. A warrior's solemn farewell.
"I know," he whispered hoarsely, a shadow crossing his expression.
He reached out suddenly, seizing Isha's arm firmly.
"Wait—Asriel!" she screamed.
Smoke curled thickly around their feet and with a sudden crack of pressure and a sharp gust of air, they vanished into swirling darkness.
Orgrim stood alone.
The room grew quieter despite the flames raging around him, their violent dance illuminating the hulking figure standing tall amidst the ruin. He exhaled slowly, allowing his shoulders to fall into place, his silhouette looming massive against the burning walls. The iron hammer rested heavy and familiar upon his shoulder, like a banner of defiance.
Heavy bootsteps thundered up the staircase, drawing closer with each breath. Orgrim's eyes narrowed, a fierce grin spreading slowly across his blood-smeared face, a final flicker of determination and pride gleaming within his gaze.
"Right then," he growled softly to himself, lifting the hammer into a battle-ready stance, the heavy head gleaming ominously in the fiery glow. "Time to meet the maker."
And with a roar, he charged forward into the awaiting inferno.
****
Asriel and Isha emerged from a swirl of smoke and burning ash, their silhouettes sharp against the dim glow of distant sirens. The night air was thick with the stench of soot and rain-slicked stone. Red-bricked walls, faded and forgotten, loomed around them like the ribs of a dying beast. Rats scattered through the alley, vanishing into gutters as damp newspapers fluttered underfoot, clinging to the ground like memories too stubborn to be buried.
Isha tore her arm free from Asriel's grasp.
"Don't touch me," she hissed, wrapping her arms around herself. "We left him. You left him."
"Isha…" Asriel's hand hovered before he let it fall. His amber eyes, dimmed by exhaustion, searched her face. "He made his choice. So did Gunnar."
"You should have stopped him!" she turned on him, her eyes glassy with grief. "We lost Gunnar. And now Orgrim. What's next?" Her words trembled. "Am I going to lose you too?"
Asriel stepped forward, slow, careful. His hand rested on her shoulder. "You know what this is. What it's always been. None of us make it to the end intact. We traded peace for justice. Life for vengeance."
Isha pressed her forehead against his chest, clutching the lapels of his coat. "I never knew the world—not really. All I ever saw was what the glass allowed me to. But with you… with them…" She breathed deeply, the words catching in her throat. "For a moment, I lived. I laughed. I hoped. And even in the blood and ruin, I was happy."
Asriel pulled her close, resting his chin gently against her head. "But every journey ends," he murmured. He looked down as she lifted her eyes to meet his. "And we're at the last stretch. Nemesis's magic is fading. The toll is coming due. Orgrim understood that. And now… we have to carry it to the end."
He reached into his coat and drew a slim, black device—matte and unassuming, no longer than a finger. It gleamed in the pale light, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
"It's time the world saw the truth. Let them see Lamar Burgess for the monster he is."
Isha stared at it, then at him. Her fear didn't vanish, but it steadied behind a wall of resolve. She gave a small nod.
"Then let's end this," she said softly.
"Together," Asriel replied.
And in the silence that followed, the shadows seemed to grow still—holding their breath for what came next.
****
The watchtower burned like a pyre, fire and smoke clawing at the heavens as flames devoured wood and stone in a searing blaze. It lit the clearing below in molten gold, casting long, warping shadows as dozens of armored guards encircled the blaze—drawn by orders, but held in place by fear.
And at the heart of it all, drenched in blood and smoke, stood Orgrim.
The orc roared—a sound guttural and thunderous—his blackened hammer, veined with burning amber, whirled through the air with brutal precision. It shattered helmets, caved in chests, and sent men flying like broken dolls. Steel shrieked under the weight of each strike. Bone cracked like brittle wood. Eyes burst, mouths frothed, and limbs twisted at grotesque angles as his weapon carved an unholy path through them.
But for every body that hit the dirt, more came.
Blades slashed into his flesh. Arrows punched through muscle. Orgrim roared again—but this time in pain. The old flame within him surged, cauterizing some wounds with lines of fire that hissed against his skin. But it was slower now. Weaker. And some gashes refused to close at all.
A sword pierced clean through his gut.
He staggered, blood—black and thick—spilled from the corners of his mouth. His eyes flared. He seized the man who'd struck him and slammed his head into the ground so hard the skull split like fruit. The orc ripped the blade from his belly with a grimace, hand clamping over the wound, breath ragged.
All around him, corpses lay strewn like broken offerings. Dozens, maybe more. He had lost count of how many he'd felled. How many skulls he'd crushed. How many lives he'd ended. But it no longer mattered.
Before him stood a final cluster of guards. Faces grim. Weapons drawn.
He took them in with a long, exhausted breath. Vision dimming. Limbs heavy. His blood thumped like war drums in his ears. He could feel it—his end approaching like an old friend. And strangely, there was no fear. He had stood at death's door before. That time, they had pulled him back. This time, he would step through on his own terms.
And whatever awaited him beyond—he'd face it with a hammer in hand.
Orgrim snarled, spitting blood on the scorched ground.
"Come on then," he growled. "Let's see who the fire takes with me."
It was then one of the soldiers stepped forward—distinct from the others. His uniform bore the same blacks and crimson cross, but he wore lighter armor, tailored and clean. Two crimson stripes marked his sleeves, denoting his rank. His pale complexion caught the amber flicker of the fire, which danced across the sharp contours of his face—light blonde hair swept neatly to the side, light blue eyes gleaming with something cruel and amused. The sardonic smirk tugging at his lips was that of a man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice a little too much.
Orgrim's blood boiled the instant he saw him.
"Hinx," the orc growled, his lip curling back over his teeth. "You wretched son of a whore."
The man gave a mock bow, slipping on his black gloves with theatrical flair. "Lieutenant Hinx, if you don't mind," he said with a lazy drawl. "And do try to show some manners, pigskin. It's a bit rude, being this sour when you're about to die."
Orgrim's nostrils flared, his fingers flexing around the haft of his hammer.
Hinx tilted his head, the flames reflected in his pale eyes. "I must say, it's a bit of a reunion, isn't it? The legendary Orgrim Darqtide… I was told you died groveling in a cave, festering like a wounded animal. But here you are—clinging to life like it still has something to offer you."
"You should've stayed a memory," Orgrim muttered, stepping forward. "Now I get to be the one to end you properly."
Hinx chuckled, low and grating. "You know, that little raid on your tribe… worked out rather nicely for us. Medals, promotions, the works. Of course, most of the lads acted like it was some great moral burden. Poor souls." He shrugged. "Not me, though. I quite enjoyed it."
He unsheathed his rapier with a soft whisper of steel. "There's something deeply satisfying about wiping your kind off the face of the world. Savages. Brutes. Barbarians, the lot of you. You understand destruction, and that's it."
Hinx tapped the toe of his boot with the tip of his blade, grinning wider. "Speaking of which—nothing holds up like orc skin. These boots? Nearly a decade old. Got them the day I butchered your kin." He paused. "I'll let you guess whose hide I had tanned. I'll give you a hint, they were your pride and joy."
Orgrim's pupils shrank. The haft of his hammer trembled under the strain of his grip, knuckles white beneath his thick green skin.
"Now," Hinx gave a graceful flourish of his blade and raised it toward the orc. "Do us all a favor and kneel, would you? I'm thinking of a new pair—maybe a matching set this time."
Orgrim didn't answer. He just stepped forward, slowly.
Then he roared.
The hammer crashed through the air like a thunderclap. Hinx dodged with practiced ease, his movements sharp and measured, like a duelist at court rather than a soldier on the battlefield. His rapier struck with surgical precision—silver cutting through pale flesh as blackened blood painted the firelit clearing.
Orgrim bellowed, fury guiding every swing. But Hinx was elusive, always a half-step out of reach. The hammer missed its mark again and again, catching unfortunate guards instead—crushing ribcages, splitting skulls, turning flesh to pulp beneath its weight. Spells ricocheted off Orgrim's hide, scorching the ground, but they did little to slow the monster loose in the flames. One by one, the last of the guards fell, only but Hinx remained.
And yet… the tide was turning.
Orgrim's roars turned to ragged grunts. His wounds, cauterized by fire, began to reopen. The healing was slower. The magic was failing. One blade slipped past his guard—then another. Blood dripped freely now, soaking into the earth. His breaths came heavy, his arms trembling.
His hammer hit the ground with a dull thud, too heavy to lift again.
Hinx stepped forward, calm as ever, brushing soot from his lapel. "What's the matter, old chum?" he taunted, smirking. "Tired already?"
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "Do you still think about her? That pigskin you called a wife?"
Orgrim's jaw clenched tight, his fangs bared in silence.
"You remember the sound she made when I stuck her?" Hinx whispered. "She screamed. Gods, did she scream."
Orgrim roared, summoning the last of his strength, lifting the hammer high as he lunged forward with a fury that shook the earth beneath them.
But Hinx was faster.
The rapier punched into Orgrim's chest—right through the heart. He then yanked his rapier free, wiping the blade with the edge of his sleeve.
The orc froze, eyes wide, blood spraying from his mouth in one violent burst. The hammer slipped from his grip and dropped beside him. He fell to his knees, then forward—face-first into the mud and ash, black blood pooling beneath him.
Hinx stood over him, panting lightly. "And that," he sneered, "is how you run through a fat pig."
"What a waste," he muttered, shaking his head. "The Sword of Damocles brings you back, and you still die on your knees. Langston lives. The Tower endures. And you? You die forgotten. Weak. Pathetic."
Orgrim couldn't move. His limbs had failed him. His breath was shallow, his vision dim.
"Now then," Hinx stepped forward, raising the rapier for the finishing blow, "let me send you off properly. Farewell, little pig."
But just as the blade began to fall, a silver flash screamed across the firelight.
A spray of blood burst into the air.
Hinx let out a howl of agony, stumbling back as his rapier went sailing through the air, hitting the ground blade first with his severed hand still clutching the hilt. He looked to his stump, eyes wide in disbelief, then turned to the figure standing before him, sword in hand.
"L-Langston?!" he choked out. "What in the Gods do you think you're doing?! You're—"
Langston said nothing. He moved like a storm—no flourish, no ceremony. His blade flashed again, slicing Hinx across the belly. The man collapsed with a scream, clutching his midsection, entrails spilling through his fingers.
"Traitor…" Hinx coughed, blood bubbling from his mouth. "You… turncoat… y-you disgrace that badge…"
"I always wondered where the old boys ended up after Vol'dunin," Langston muttered as he approached the man sprawled across the blood-soaked earth.
"Some left the Tower, too ashamed to show their faces. Others took postings in the backwater corners of Avalon, looking for some scrap of penance..." He stopped, looming over the writhing figure. "And then there's you—and the rest of you mangy bastards."
Hinx coughed, blood drooling from the corner of his mouth as he gave a broken, rasping laugh. "That's rich... coming from you, Captain," he sneered. "Played the hero. Basked in the glory. Lapped up every cheer, every bloody medal."
He spat, a dark glob hitting the ground between them. "I expected hypocrisy from you, Langston. But you—" His lip curled. "You actually believe you're better than us."
Without a word, Langston slammed his boot onto Hinx's chest. The man gasped, choking as air fled his lungs.
"There's no forgiving what we did," Langston said. "I've made my peace with that." His sword rose, pressing lightly against Hinx's throat. "But I don't parade my sins around like bloody trophies."
He leaned down. "I know the meaning of remorse, Hinx. Do you?"
Hinx's mouth twisted in hatred. "You two-faced, self-righteous—"
Steel flashed. Langston rammed the blade through his throat, silencing the words forever. The man gurgled once, twitched, then lay still. He stood over the corpse for a moment, breathing hard. Then he wrenched his sword free, blood spraying the ground.
"You always were a sadistic little shit," he muttered, wiping the blade against his coat. "Should've put you down years ago."
Then he sheathed his sword and made his way toward Orgrim. The orc's eyes fluttered open. His vision was fogged and dark. He saw a blur kneeling beside him. A face he loathed. A voice he barely heard.
Langston said something… words meant for comfort, or regret, maybe both.
But Orgrim heard nothing.
Darkness took him. The hammer lay cold beside him, and the fires raged on.
****
Day by day, Caerleon slid deeper into the jaws of chaos.
Norsefire's grip on the city was merciless. The black-clad enforcers swept through the streets like a storm, their presence oppressive, their tactics savage. For a city that had long basked in peace, the sudden onslaught was like being plunged into cold iron. But as expected, the people didn't fold. They pushed back—hard.
Riots tore through the districts like wildfire. Barricades of overturned carriages and flaming debris littered the main roads. Storefronts stood with windows shattered, looted bare, smoke billowing from upper floors. Vehicles lay smoldering in heaps of twisted steel and scorched rubber. The clash of magic was everywhere—flashes of neon spells lighting up the alleys as wands were drawn and flung with reckless defiance.
But Norsefire was trained for this.
Their formation never wavered. Shock troopers descended with brutal efficiency, their batons cracking against bone, their riot spells rendering resistance null. Screams filled the night as those caught—fighters or bystanders alike—were hauled away in shackles, faces bloodied, pride stripped. The holding cells overflowed, corridors packed with the moans of the broken and the wrongfully accused.
By the fourth night, entire sectors had been sealed off with barricades and steel gates. Districts deemed 'volatile' were placed under total control. Patrols doubled, then tripled. Spotlights swept the rooftops. By dawn, it had become routine—Norsefire boots at every corner, eyes behind black visors watching the world like predators waiting for a twitch.
The city of Caerleon burned under a sky too quiet. And beneath the weight of fear and fire, its people learned a new truth:
They were no longer free.
Rowena's sapphire eyes drifted over the ruined streets as the clock struck noon, the weight in her chest pressing tighter with every step. Shattered furniture lay strewn across the sidewalks like corpses from a war long since lost. Shopfronts, once lively and bright, now stood hollow—windows boarded, signs ripped down, the brickwork scarred with soot and scorched magic. Dried blood painted the cobblestones in rusted streaks, a silent testament to the chaos that had unfolded.
She remembered the stories told in comfort—by candlelight, over wine and aged cheese—her uncle's words steady, her grandfather's tone grim. Tales of the insurrection in Camelot. Of mobs, of fire, of desperate men in masks. At the time, it had chilled her, as though hearing a ghost story too close to the truth. But now, standing in the broken bones of Caerleon, she realized the stories had never captured the full horror.
This wasn't Camelot. Caerleon was a quiet city, simpler, kinder. Its people lived far from the shadows of politics and power struggles. They were bakers, scholars, artisans—ordinary souls who had never asked for war. And yet war had come. It had ripped through their lives like a tempest, and they hadn't been prepared. How could they have been?
She tried to silence the voice inside her—tried to explain it away. That perhaps Lamar had no choice. That this was strategy. That it was necessary.
But doubt lingered, and it was growing louder.
She had always looked up to her uncle. Admired his poise, his brilliance, the calm authority with which he carried himself. He had raised her on lessons of principle, of restraint, of reason. And yet, what she saw around her now was none of those things. There was no reason in shattered bones. No restraint in black-booted enforcers breaking doors in the night.
Could this truly be the man she had once idolized?
She wasn't sure anymore. And that uncertainty was beginning to hurt far more than the fear.
"Hey," Helena said gently, breaking the silence between them. "You alright?"
Rowena turned slightly, her grip tightening around the stack of books in her arms. "I'm fine," she replied, too quickly. "Just… a lot on my mind."
The two walked side by side along the cracked pavement, the soft tap of their shoes mingling with the distant echo of sirens and the low murmur of voices. A few people moved through the streets—heads low, expressions drawn tight, deliberately avoiding the eyes of the Norsefire patrols standing like statues at every other corner.
"Thanks again for coming with me to Spindles & Spells," Rowena said after a pause. "Godric's sealed himself in the training room, Salazar's still recovering in the Hospital Wing… and Helga—she said she was going to visit Pablo. To check on them."
"No trouble at all," Helena replied with a small smile. "Besides, the castle's gotten stifling lately. And it's not like I can train in peace with a broody lion hogging every corner of the training room." She pouted dramatically. "I swear, he growled at me yesterday."
That drew a soft chuckle from Rowena. "Sounds about right." Her gaze softened, though her eyes still looked distant. "It's hard. The more we try to reach him, the further he pulls away."
"I get it," Helena said. "You don't walk away from a love like that and come out whole. What Godric had with Raine… it was rare. Beautiful, even." She sighed. "Sometimes I wish I had something like that. The way he looked at her—it was like the rest of the world didn't exist."
"You and me both," Rowena murmured.
They turned a corner. The streets stretched ahead—ruined, raw. Charred storefronts, shattered windows, and the faint scent of smoke still lingering in the air. Helena's eyes drifted over the wreckage with a clenched jaw.
"My family used to visit Caerleon every summer," she said quietly. "Back when things were... simpler. I've never seen it like this. It's like the city's forgotten how to breathe." Her fists clenched. "And it's all because of Lamar Burgess."
"Helena," Rowena's tone dropped, alarmed. She glanced toward the guards lining the sidewalk. "Keep your voice down. Please. We shouldn't be so quick to—"
"To what?" Helena cut in. "To excuse him? To pretend like this is all just unfortunate coincidence?" She gestured around them. "Look at this, Rowena. Look at what he's done to this place."
Rowena didn't reply. Her lips parted, then closed again.
"And I know," Helena said, lifting a finger sharply as Rowena opened her mouth to speak. "You and him have history. Don't bother denying it—I'm an Overseer of the Congregation. Information's part of the job. I know the Director's a family friend of yours. It's only natural you'd want to defend him."
"It's not like that, Helena," Rowena insisted, clutching the books tighter to her chest. "Uncle Lamar's been there since Bran and I were children. The man I knew—he was kind, gentle. Everything he did was for the law, for the safety of the people."
"Was he?" Helena cut in. "Because I've heard differently. Lamar Burgess has been neck-deep in controversy long before he warmed the Director's chair."
"You don't know him, Helena," Rowena snapped.
"Perhaps not," Helena shot back, her brown eyes narrowing. "Or perhaps you never really knew him at all."
Rowena stiffened, but Helena pressed on, relentless.
"Call it upholding the law, preserving peace, dressing it up however you like. I don't give a damn what excuses he's feeding the Council. Asriel, Nemesis, the murders, the chaos—none of it justifies this."
She exhaled shakily. "My family's terrified, Rowena. So are families all over Avalon. They write to me every day. Asking if I'm safe. If Excalibur is still standing. But the letters had ceased, and now they can't even get to me—not with the lockdown. They're trapped behind a wall of silence, waiting for something worse to happen."
"I'm sure it's only temporary," Rowena said, clutching the books in her arms tighter. "It'll lift soon. It has to—"
A sudden crash split the air.
They both turned as the sound of shattering glass echoed from down the street. A body flew through the display window of a small corner shop, landing hard on the asphalt. Glass scattered like shards of ice. The boy groaned, rolling onto his side, blood painting his brow. The insignia of House Ignis stood bright on his torn uniform.
Rowena gasped. "That's—he's from the Academy…"
Helena's fists clenched. "He's one of ours."
A Norsefire guard stepped out of the shop, baton drawn, its length snapping into place with a metallic hiss. More guards followed, dragging two other students with their arms bound behind them.
"We didn't do anything!" one of the girls shouted.
"Stop resisting!" barked the guard. He drove a knee into her stomach. She buckled with a choked cry.
Rowena froze. "This… they're not allowed to touch students. They can't…"
But the guard was already advancing on the injured boy, baton raised for another blow.
Helena's gaze hardened, and then she ran.
"Helena, no!" Rowena shouted, but it was too late.
Helena pulled her wand from her uniform, her footsteps swift and precise. As the baton came down, she raised her arm and cried, "Expelliarmus!"
A red bolt burst from the wand's tip, striking the weapon mid-swing. It flew from the guard's grip and clattered across the pavement.
"Depulso!" Helena followed up.
The blast hit square in the guard's chest, hurling him backward into the shattered frame of the doorway.
"Wand! She's armed—take her down!" another guard shouted, raising his own.
Spells exploded through the air. Bolts of searing light hissed past Rowena, who could only watch in stunned silence as Helena met each attack head-on.
She moved like a dancer—spells rolled from her wand in a rhythm honed through practice and precision. Deflection charms arced around her, scattering enemy fire, while her retaliations struck with clean, brutal accuracy.
One guard went down with a blast to the shoulder, another to the chest. The air filled with the scent of burnt fabric and scorched brick. One of the captured students, still on the ground, looked up in awe.
Helena's chest heaved; her wand steady. The street was quiet again—broken only by the groans of the guards sprawled across the pavement. Rowena stood motionless; her eyes wide. She had never seen Helena fight before. Not like this. And now, the silence before the inevitable storm gripped the street like a vice.
Before Helena could react, she felt a sharp, brutal crack at the back of her skull. Her vision swam—the world spinning—as her wand slipped from her grasp. A Norsefire guard loomed behind her, baton dripping with her blood as it trickled warmly down her forehead. She staggered forward and crumpled onto the pavement, her limbs limp.
Rowena's blood ran cold.
Her books spilled from her arms, forgotten, as she watched Helena's body fall still. Her gaze snapped back to the guard, just as he raised his baton again.
Without thinking, Rowena seized her wand.
"Stupefy!" she cried.
A burst of blue light exploded from her wand-tip, striking the guard square in the chest. He flew backward like a ragdoll, slamming into the side of the shop with a sickening thud.
But before Rowena could aim another spell, an arm hooked violently around her neck, yanking her back. Her wand clattered from her fingers.
"Unhand me!" she gasped, thrashing against the iron grip crushing her throat. "I said unhand me, this instant!"
The guard only tightened his hold, cutting off her air. Blackness began to creep into the corners of her vision. Then a voice roared down the street.
"What the hell's going on here?!"
Hartshorne stormed toward them, boots cracking sharply against the broken asphalt. His eyes darted over the scene—and then locked onto Rowena. His face twisted in fury.
"Release her! Now, you idiot!" he bellowed.
The guard froze, stunned. "But sir, she—she attacked—"
"Are you thick?" Hartshorne snapped, closing the distance with terrifying speed. "That's Burgess' goddaughter, you bloody halfwit! Unhand her before he has us both butchered like cattle!"
The guard paled to the color of chalk and immediately let go. Rowena stumbled forward, coughing, her lungs burning for air—only to be caught by Hartshorne's arms.
"There, there, my dear. Easy now," he said as he steadied her. "Breathe."
Rowena gasped in a shuddering breath, clutching at his sleeve as the dizziness began to ebb. Hartshorne turned to the guard with a glare so cutting it could have flayed flesh.
"If she so much as bruises, forget Burgess—I'll have your head on a pike before the sun sets. Now get out of my bloody sight!"
The guard scurried away without a word, disappearing into the gathered Norsefire ranks.
Hartshorne's gaze softened as he looked back to Rowena, carefully brushing a lock of hair from her blood-smeared brow. "There now," he said grimly. "You're safe."
But even as he spoke, Rowena's gaze flicked past him—to Helena's crumpled form still lying motionless on the broken street—and a cold dread rooted itself in her heart.
"Sheriff," Rowena said, "my friend—she needs medical attention."
Hartshorne turned his head just enough to glance at Helena. One of the guards was already crouched beside her, snapping cuffs around her limp wrists. "Right. Your friend," he muttered, the sympathy in his tone non-existent.
"I need to get her to the Hospital Wing," Rowena pressed, clutching her wand tightly. "She's hurt. She could have a concussion. If you'd just send us back—"
"My apologies, Miss Ravenclaw," Hartshorne interrupted smoothly, raising a hand. "But your friend assaulted Norsefire officers during the execution of a lawful arrest. She'll be taken into custody and processed accordingly."
Rowena stared, aghast. "You can't be serious. She's a student. They're students! You can't just arrest them—that violates the Excalibur Accords!"
"I'm quite familiar with the Accords," Hartshorne replied. "But as of last week, the Accords and Caerleon's Sanctuary status have been suspended. Martial law is now in effect." His eyes sharpened. "And that supersedes all prior authority. Peace must be preserved. Order must be maintained. By any means necessary."
"You can't do this," Rowena breathed. "This is illegal. Unconstitutional. It's… it's evil!"
Hartshorne only smiled faintly, unbothered. "The Council will understand. What we're doing falls well within our authority. You of all people should appreciate that… being a Ravenclaw."
Rowena opened her mouth, but no words came. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She had studied the law. She knew the codes. And she knew—he was right.
Hartshorne straightened. "I'll overlook this transgression, Miss Ravenclaw, just this once. Out of respect for your… family connections." He turned to leave, then stopped, looking back over his shoulder. "But don't think those ties will protect you forever. Cross the line again…" His words turned to ice. "And you'll face consequence all the same."
Then he walked away.
Rowena didn't move. She couldn't. Her eyes tracked the guards as they dragged the other students like sacks of grain—one of them hefting Helena's unconscious body and tossing it into the back of an armored vehicle. The doors slammed shut with a metallic clang. Just before they did, Helena's glazed eyes met hers.
And then she was gone.
Rowena stood alone in the street, heart hammering. The air stank of smoke and blood and power abused. Everything she believed in—justice, truth, the Tower, her uncle—fractured like glass beneath her feet. Platitudes. Lies. The world she had inherited was not what it claimed to be.
Her fingers curled into fists. Her jaw clenched.
This cannot stand.
She turned sharply on her heel, storming down the street. The castle loomed in the distance, its silhouette against the cloudless sky. Headmaster Blaise would know. The Professors would know. They had to.
Because if they didn't, then Caerleon was already lost.