A long pause stretched between the three of them. The city filled the space between heartbeats. Tires whispering across distant asphalt, wind nudging loose signs into a soft metallic rattle, engines rumbling somewhere beyond the alley's mouth. For a moment, it felt as if the whole world was listening.
Then Bastion tilted his head, his expression loosening into something almost bored.
"Nope, doesn't ring a bell," he said with a casual shrug. "Remind me, who are you again?"
Elias stared at him, mouth falling open before anger shot through him like a struck match. "Are you freaking kidding me?!" he barked, fist lifting as if the sheer volume of his outrage might jog Bastion's memory. "You're telling me that old coot never said a single thing about me?"
Bastion shook his head without hesitation.
Elias dragged a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he exhaled. "Gods blessed… I should have known." A bitter laugh slipped from him, sharp with disbelief. "Bet Wilhelm's laughing his ass off at me right now. Guess I can add that to the list. One more reason to kick that son of a bitch square in the ass when I finally get to the other side."
His dulled gaze settled on Bastion, the weight of years softening the edges of his expression. "We'll talk more, kid, after I get settled in." A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "I think I've kept the old lady waiting long enough." He lifted two fingers in a playful salute. "Be seeing you."
He stepped forward, cane tapping lightly against the ground as he climbed the steps, each tap steady despite the years carved into his frame.
Finn slid his monocle back into place and hurried after him with a nod. "Right, right. This way if you would—" He caught himself mid-gesture, clearing his throat as he lowered his hand. "That is to say, simply follow the sound of my voice."
As they approached the entrance, Elias paused. He turned, looking back over his shoulder at Bastion with surprising sharpness behind the weariness.
"You know, call it a hunch," he said, "but I can tell you've been carrying something heavy. Something you've been draggin' around ever since the Siege."
Bastion's eyes widened.
"Do yourself a favor, kid. Take it off and toss it down the first hole you find." Elias's words softened, though the bluntness remained. "Shit happened. Burgess can rot in Hell. Tower's gone to the dogs. But you ain't doin' anyone a damn bit of good walkin' around like you're the one who lost the war."
He let that sink in for a beat.
"Well, maybe you did. Maybe we all did. But take it from an old soldier," he went on. "You ain't always gonna be the hero. Truth is, the same people who cheer your name one day might be the same ones spittin' in your face the next."
He gave a slow breath. "Your grandpa knew that better than most, and so did I. There's no use cryin' over it, because that's just the world we've got. And you sure as Hell ain't any use to the boys if you're just gonna mope through the wreckage. Think about that."
With that, he turned again, cane tapping across stone as he found the doorway and pushed through. Finn hesitated, casting one last sober look at Bastion. Sympathy folded beneath practiced professionalism, before following the older man inside.
Bastion lingered a moment longer, watching the doors settle shut with a dull, final thud that echoed faintly across the precinct steps. His gaze drifted downward to the concrete beneath his boot as Elias's words seeped deeper into his thoughts, settling with a weight he couldn't quite shake. Even now, long after the siege had ended, he could still hear the whispers trailing behind him.
Low curses muttered under breath, the sharp glances cast his way, the resentment simmering in the eyes of Caerleon's people. Most would never lay a hand on him, kept back by fear, duty, guilt, or the fragile threads of their own obligations. But Bastion knew better. He knew there would always be those with nothing left to lose, because the Siege had already taken everything from them… and men with nothing are always the ones who step forward first.
He exhaled, shoulders sagging briefly before he pushed the breath away. Rubbing the back of his head, he stepped off the landing and down onto the pavement. The sun was still up, casting a warm, indifferent glow over the street.
Duty called.
****
The Sheriff's office had remained largely untouched, its quiet stillness preserved as though time itself had hesitated to disturb it. A faint scent of age lingered beneath the thin veil of dust that settled over the shelves, the books, and the immaculate wooden desk. Mayor Ramonda sat with deliberate poise in one of the cushioned armchairs by the low coffee table, her aged frame wrapped in the gentle morning light filtering through the blinds. She lifted her teacup, allowing the warm blend of mint and chamomile to settle on her tongue while her gaze drifted slowly across the room, drawn between the pull of nostalgia and a simmering resentment she could not quite disguise.
The last time she had stepped foot in this place, she had endured a humiliation without reprieve. Delivered by a man she had quietly celebrated in death, and by the Sheriff who followed him, whose passing she had allowed to fade without ceremony, memorial, or even a kind word. His name remained a blemish upon a city that once prided itself on dignity and order.
A small sound escaped her as she set her cup down.
"Hhm."
Her attention slid toward the older man seated beside her. Elias sipped thoughtfully from his teacup, his eyes widening a fraction as he smacked his lips, savoring the taste.
"This is amazing," he murmured, leaning back with a soft sigh of appreciation. "Where in Avalon did you get this honey?"
Ramonda allowed a restrained chuckle to slip through. "Would you believe me," she said, "if I told you it was a gift from Winston Ravenclaw?"
Elias raised an eyebrow, amusement tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth. "Winston?" he repeated, letting out a warm chuckle. "Of course it is. The man talked for years about wanting to keep bees. Said it was at the very top of his retirement list."
The mirth faded from his expression, replaced by a gentler, reflective sadness.
"Just didn't expect it to come sooner than he planned," he said quietly. "Truth be told, I always thought he'd be here until his twilight years… and, funnily enough, so did I."
His dull gaze drifted across the old office as though searching for something that had long since slipped beyond reach a future that never quite arrived, and a past that refused to be forgotten.
"But after the shit Lamar pulled," Elias said, his voice roughening as he returned the teacup to its saucer and set it upon the coffee table, "and after that damned Council sold their souls to the devil, after what they did to Winston… Hell, it churned my insides clean out. I knew that if I'd stayed one more day, I would have taken Lamar's head right off his shoulders, and by the Gods, I would've done it without losing a wink of sleep." He drew a sharp breath and let it out slowly, the sound heavy with the memory. "If not for Wilhelm."
Ramonda listened, her posture softening, her eyes fixed on him with a quiet understanding as old as the walls around them.
Elias shook his head, the motion carrying the weight of years. "I honestly thought the old goat would've come with us. Leave Lamar to rot that place from the inside out. But the man was as stubborn as they come." He rubbed the back of his neck with a weary hand. "Said that if he left, there'd be no one left to protect the Tower. It took me a long time to understand what he meant, and the day he passed was the day I finally realized just how right he was."
"You know," Ramonda murmured with a calm, reflective warmth, "I have always found it rather strange. Amusing, in its way. Reinhardt, Ravenclaw, and Burgess were the names spoken with such reverence, the heroes enshrined in the Tower's stories." Her gaze shifted to Elias, steady and discerning. "Yet yours was the name that scarcely passed their lips, despite your rather… illustrious reputation."
Elias let out a low chuckle, the corners of his mouth lifting with wry humor. "Illustrious might be stretchin' it, Angela." He tipped his head, shrugging at his own past. "Notorious is probably closer to the truth, given my… line of work."
He paused before continuing in a tone that threaded both memory and resignation.
"Sure, Winston was the negotiator," Elias said. "He could broker peace between nations that'd been blasting each other to hell for centuries. Lamar? He was the one–man army they called in whenever the world needed a monster put down. Guy was as relentless as he was deadly, carved his name into history one body at a time."
He drew a slow breath. "And Wilhelm… well, Wilhelm was the commander. The man you'd follow into any battlefield because you knew he'd pull you back out again. Didn't matter how ugly the fight got, he always came home. Always. And there wasn't a damned soul alive who could go toe to toe with him when steel met steel."
Elias hesitated, the silence settling between them in a soft, weighted fold.
"Me?" He let out a quiet laugh, a smile tugging faintly at his lips. "I'm the one nobody talks about. Can't, won't, and frankly, I never wanted them to." His hand skimmed across the polished surface of the table as he reached for the teapot, tapping once before finding the handle. Ramonda instinctively leaned forward, ready to steady it, but he lifted it on his own and poured, the stream of tea landing cleanly in his cup despite the blindness clouding his eyes.
"See," Elias went on, "while the three of them chased the demons that danced in the light… I hunted the devils that hid in the dark." He gestured loosely to his eyes. The motion touched with a wry acceptance. "No pun intended, of course."
The faint echo of Elias's smile lingered, fragile yet undeniably honest in the quiet of the Sheriff's office. "While Avalon drowned in barbarians bent on slaughter, a tyrant choosin' his next conquest, or marauders lookin' to pillage, steal, and burn their way through every settlement they could find, the Tower got real comfortable leanin' on those three."
His fingers brushed the silver spoon resting beside the honey bowl. He scooped once, twice, the golden thread slipping into his tea before he set the spoon down with a soft clink. "But even in all that chaos, cases slipped through the cracks. The ones they stamped with a neat little label—Black Cases."
Ramonda's expression tightened. "I am familiar with the term," she said. "Cases considered unsolvable. The final step before the Tower abandons them."
"You're well informed." Elias lifted the saucer, taking a slow sip, letting the warmth roll over his tongue. "It's easy for those cases to get ignored. Real easy. Especially when the Tower's busy holdin' back the Bermans or tradin' fire with the Dorrsian Empire." He shrugged. "Don't get me wrong. Those threats were real. Treacherous, no doubt."
He set the cup down, the porcelain whispering against the table.
"But what about the common folk?" Elias asked quietly. "What happens to them in the middle of all that hell? 'Cause evil sure as hell doesn't take a holiday just because a bigger evil shows up."
The room fell still, dust motes drifting through the amber light as Ramonda folded her hands in her lap, her gaze thoughtful and troubled in equal measure.
"That's where I come in." Elias drew in a long breath before letting it slip out in a weary sigh. "And by the Gods, after everything I've had to face. Everything I've had to do. There are days I'm grateful I couldn't see a damned thing."
His pale eyes narrowed, the milky irises settling on Ramonda with a clarity that transcended sight. "Most folk think a bastard like Burgess represents the ceiling of human degeneracy, the pinnacle of cruelty… but truth is, the filth I've hunted in the dark would make a man like him look almost saintly by comparison. The only reason you don't know about it is because people like you were never meant to. That's what a Black Case is."
Ramonda's gaze drifted to the amber surface of her tea, her fingers curling gently around the porcelain. "I… I've heard of such things," she murmured. "And to be entirely honest, I admire your ability to keep any measure of faith in humanity after enduring all that you have."
A low laugh escaped Elias. "Can't keep what you never had, Angela." A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Call me cynical, but I've always expected the worst of people. Every person, every time, which means I'm never disappointed when they go on and prove me right."
"That is a rather bleak way to live," Ramonda said, tilting her head with a quiet sigh. "Though I suppose it carries its own cruel irony, considering everything that's happened. You are quite the polar opposite of Blaise, if I may say so. He always sees the best in everyone, whereas you seem determined to see only the worst."
Elias set his cup down with a soft clink. "I simply look at the world as it is, not as I'd like it to be," he said. "And at our age, we've witnessed enough of humanity's ugliness to stop believing in fairy tales."
Ramonda gave a helpless little shrug. "How depressingly true."
"By the way," Elias lifted an eyebrow, the motion subtle but enough to pull Ramonda's attention back to him. "Heard through the vine that I wasn't your first pick for Sheriff. There was someone else you'd considered. A Vagabond, wasn't he? Teaches Mundane Studies at Excalibur?" A soft chuckle escaped him. "I'm guessin' Blaise wasn't too thrilled you went sniffin' around his faculty."
Ramonda let out a quiet laugh. "Believe me, 'mildly livid' is a very polite way of putting it. But yes," she continued, smoothing her sleeve, "Professor Ryan Ashford. Though I suspect a man like you would know him better by the name he carries outside the academy."
"Noseferatu," Elias said without hesitation, the name slipping from his tongue as if he'd been waiting for it. "Hell, he's made half the Sanctist Church sweat through their robes these past few months." His grin twisted, the edge of it darkly amused. "From the stories I've heard, I might consider myself a fan. Sounds to me like someone who walks very similar shadows to the ones I used to."
"I'm sure you two would get along quite well," Ramonda replied. "And since you'll be stationed here a while, perhaps you might also say hello to Serfence while you're at it."
At that, Elias huffed out a short laugh. "Serfence. Still carryin' that chip on his shoulder?"
"That and a fair bit more," Ramonda said, a knowing edge softening her tone. "But I imagine he'd be more than pleased to reunite with the man he once held in such high regard."
"Warned him that the road he was walkin' would be long and dark, but I suppose warnings are only words until you've walked it yourself," Elias said, shaking his head. "You can tell a kid not to touch a hot stove, but it's the burn that teaches him."
He paused, leaning forward just slightly. "Speakin' of Sheriffs… you want to tell me what happened to that piece of crap George?"
Ramonda's lips lifted into a smirk. "Karma," she said with quiet satisfaction. "I can't fully verify the stories, though I dearly wish I could. But from what I've heard, he was defeated… by a student."
Elias's eyebrow arched. "The Flashing Blade, bested by a student?" A short scoff escaped him. "Man must have truly lost his edge."
"I've also heard," Ramonda went on, "that it was no ordinary student. In any case, it is as I say, hearsay. But his demise was confirmed, and I must admit, rather satisfying." Her tone sharpened. "A pity his body was never recovered. I would have liked to see it hanging from Caerleon's gates for the buzzards to pick clean."
Elias laughed, the sound low and gravelly. "I never liked the bastard, even when he was a Lieutenant. Always had that slick, oily air about him. You could smell the ambition dripping off him. Fella always struck me as the type who'd stab someone in the back and then act offended when his hands got dirty."
He snorted. "Never had the spine to stand on his own either. Always clinging to someone stronger. That's how he ended up waggin' his tail for Burgess."
"Two peas in a pod," Ramonda murmured. She exhaled. The sound soft but weighted. "Still… I suppose there's little point dwelling on him now." Her gaze drifted across the Sheriff's office. The shelves, the desk, the faint dust left behind by weeks of neglect. "It has been a very long time coming, but I believe I'm finally ready to leave all of this behind."
A quiet solemnity filled the room, as though the walls themselves recognized her words and eased under the release.
"I can't recall the last time Caerleon held an election without your name on the ballot," Elias said with a dry chuckle. "Tower's in tatters, guilds clawing their way into power, and the Iron Lady of Caerleon finally stepping aside. Brave new world, in more ways than one." He tipped his head slightly. "I'm guessing you've already chosen your successor."
Ramonda's smile lingered for only a moment. "As a matter of fact, I have." It faded just as quickly, replaced by something more sober. "That said, there are other names circulating. Names that give me pause."
Elias's brow lifted. "Oh?"
"You know the sort," Ramonda replied. "Elitists. Opportunists. Those who see the mayor's chair as a means to enrich themselves rather than serve." She drew a measured breath. "I've spent most of my life keeping all forms of leeches from ever touching that office. People who care nothing for this city or its people. Who would gladly drape Caerleon in prejudice, greed, and quiet oppression."
Her gaze drifted toward the window, the late morning sun filtering through dust-streaked glass. "And I'm sure you've heard the Authority has doubled its presence here, citing increased Libertalia activity." Her jaw tightened. "It brought me no comfort, but I allowed it. There's a difference between being a sanctuary city… and becoming a haven for terrorists."
"It's caught my attention," Elias said with a dry scoff. "I've had my share of… disagreements with the Authority, and more often than not they ended badly. For them." A faint chuckle slipped out. "You could say it's tradition at this point. Given their line of work, I've always considered them scum. Still, with Burgess' crimes laid bare, it's harder than usual to pretend we stand any higher than they do."
His gaze levelled, the humor fading. "That said, the Authority's the least of your worries, Angela." He lifted his chin slightly. "I've also heard you're dealing with a surge in gang activity. More specifically… the Colors."
Ramonda released a slow breath. "Yes. The Colors." She shook her head, the movement small but weary. "Hooligans, every last one of them. Different tribes, same stories. Orphans. The abused. The discarded. They find kinship in one another, and through that bond they gain power, then influence."
Her eyes returned to Elias. "I would spit on George's grave without hesitation, but I won't deny this much. While he was Sheriff, he kept the peace. Brutally, yes, but effectively." Her jaw tightened. "The gangs feared him, and given his fondness for cruelty, I understand why." She looked away. "What I find harder to stomach is that I once shared the Council's wretched belief that the ends justified the means."
Elias lifted his teacup, bringing it to his lips for a measured sip. "On the surface, perhaps," he said evenly. "But you know me well enough to know I don't stop at the surface."
Ramonda's brow arched slightly as she waited.
"I still have friends in the Tower," Elias continued. "So I did a bit of digging on my own, and what I found was… intriguing."
His fingers rested lightly against the porcelain. "I've dealt with gangs like the Colors before. Small-time bangers, mostly. Like wolves snapping at an unwatched flock. They rip, burn, kill, then vanish into the night." A faint shake of his head followed. "Their usual targets are predictable. Small businesses. Slums. Places where security is either stretched thin or already bought."
"I'm afraid I don't follow," Ramonda said.
"Gangs like the Colors are tribal by nature," Elias went on. "Territorial to the point of obsession. Even in Camelot, they were constantly at one another's throats over turf. A few dead bangers here, a handful there, and everyone shrugs it off as another Tuesday."
He paused, letting the contrast settle.
"But that hasn't been happening here." His gaze sharpened. "Lately, the Colors in Caerleon have been… restrained. Disciplined, even." He lifted his teacup slightly in emphasis. "No infighting. No messy street wars. Instead, they've been hitting very specific targets. Lucrative ones. And they're doing it with precision, coordination, and tactics you don't usually see from street gangs."
He met her eyes again. "That's not coincidence. That's organization."
"Are you suggesting there's an invisible hand pulling the strings?" Ramonda asked.
"I'm not suggesting anything," Elias replied, setting his teacup back onto its saucer. "It's far too early to leap to conclusions." He drew a slow breath, then released it. "But when you take everything together. The growing strain between Caerleon and the Tower, the Authority tightening its grip, the Congregation becoming something more than a social club, and now you stepping away from the Mayor's chair…"
His gaze hardened.
"It starts to look less like coincidence and more like a convergence," he said. "A perfect storm, sitting atop a powder keg that's already burning."
Elias' eyes narrowed, pale and intent.
"Something's coming, Angela. I can feel it. You can feel it. And I'd wager Blaise feels it too." A pause. "What worries me most is that none of us know how this ends."
Ramonda blinked, then tried to suppress a laugh, and failed. The sound escaped her before she could stop it, soft at first, then sharper, enough to draw Elias's attention.
"I apologize," she said, lifting a hand as she gathered herself. "It's just… painfully ironic. To think that the peace we relied on for so long was held together by so few people we barely acknowledged. Now that they're gone, everything unravels at once." She exhaled slowly. "The walls we trusted have crumbled, and the shadows they kept at bay have spilled through, bringing monsters that no longer bother to hide their intent."
"Peace has always been a fragile thing," Elias replied. "It was never meant to last." He paused. "And that's the real failure, isn't it? We grew comfortable. Complicit. We told ourselves safety was worth the price, even if that price meant handing power to monsters like Burgess and the Council." His mouth twisted faintly. "We looked away and hoped someone else would bleed in our place, so we could sleep soundly."
Ramonda said nothing, her gaze fixed on him.
"We've been living on borrowed time," Elias continued. "The illusion finally shattered. What comes next won't be ours to shape. Not fully." A small, knowing smile touched his lips. "It'll be decided by those who come after us."
He leaned back slightly.
"We've had our time, Angela. Like Winston. Like Wilhelm. Like you and me. The future doesn't belong to relics." His voice softened, just a fraction. "It belongs to the young. That's where hope has to live now."
Ramonda gave a small shrug and nodded. "I suppose you're right. And dare I say, I'm long overdue for a proper rest."
Elias glanced at her over the rim of his cup. "Any idea how you plan to fill the time?"
She let out a soft chuckle. "Retirement was never part of the design. I always imagined I'd meet my end right there in my office, quill in hand, buried beneath petitions and council notes." Her gaze drifted to the amber surface of her tea. "Now? I honestly don't know. I've toyed with the idea of pestering Winston for beekeeping advice, or perhaps wandering the known worlds with Blaise for a time." She looked back to him. "What did you do after you left the Tower?"
Elias' expression slackened, his gaze dropping briefly before a faint, warmer smile found its way back. "The usual things. I won't pretend the transition was easy, but I managed." His smile lingered, edged with something quieter. "I moved on. Fell in love. Started a family… lost it all." He exhaled. "And now I'm here."
Ramonda's expression softened immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
He shook his head. "Don't be." After a breath, he continued, steadier now. "While I'm here, you can rest easy knowing the city won't be left to rot. The Tower may be a mess, but I'll work with what's left." A grin tugged at his mouth. "Besides, you've already got a name making the rounds. Wilhelm's grandson."
"Lieutenant Reinhardt," Ramonda nodded. "Every bit the ruffian his grandfather was, but one of the good ones. He stood against Norsefire during the Siege. He was meant to return to Camelot afterward but requested to stay."
Elias tilted his head, chuckling under his breath. "Did he now? Gods help us." He shook his head, amused. "Sounds exactly like Wilhelm. I know he would've done the same."
A sharp rap of knuckles against wood drew their attention just as the brass doorknob turned and Finn stepped inside. "My apologies, Madame Mayor," he said, bowing his head slightly, "but I'm afraid you're needed back at City Hall for your upcoming meeting with—" He faltered, his gaze drifting to Elias, who lifted an eyebrow at the hesitation. Finn cleared his throat and adjusted his monocle. "We really should make haste."
"Of course," Ramonda replied, rising from her seat as she turned back to Elias. "Forgive me, I must take my leave. Your belongings have already been moved to the Sheriff's quarters. I'll arrange for someone to escort you there at the end of the day."
"Oh, don't trouble yourself, Angela," Elias said, reaching back for his cane as he pushed himself to his feet. He leaned into it with practiced ease. "I know the way well enough. Besides, these old bones could use the walk. It's been far too long since I last set foot in Caerleon."
"I must insist," Ramonda said. "You never know when those gangsters might—"
Elias met her gaze with a look that stopped her short.
Her eyes widened, then she shook her head with a small, resigned smile. "Of course. What a foolish thought." She inclined her head. "Good day, Elias. I'll see you in my office tomorrow morning."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he replied, returning the nod.
Ramonda turned toward the door, Finn offering Elias one last courteous glance before following her out. The door closed behind them with a muted thud.
Left alone, Elias surveyed the office, breathing in the lingering scent of dust, old wood, and memories that clung stubbornly to the walls. After a moment, he shrugged lightly.
"Well," he murmured to the empty room, "looks like we've got our work cut out for us."
****
The great brass bells of the Excalibur clock tower tolled with a deep, resonant chime, their sound rolling across the city in broad, echoing waves. The clock face, still wrapped in steel platforms and scaffolding as restoration continued, bore the scars of the Siege openly, most notably from the final confrontation between Godric and Burgess, a clash that had already begun to settle into legend. Children of every race crowded before small showboxes set along the streets, where hand puppets reenacted the battle in exaggerated strokes, their cheers and boos rising in uneven bursts as heroes triumphed and villains fell.
Life pressed on around them regardless. The scent of roasting meats, fresh bread pulled from ovens, and bitter coffee hung thick in the summer air, weaving through the streets as the midday sun bore down without mercy. Even so, the people moved with purpose, merchants calling out, passersby laughing, the city breathing again after everything it had endured.
Near the ruined remains of Edda and Pablo's restaurant, bouquets and ribbons still gathered in quiet defiance of time. Flowers wilted beside hardened pools of wax that had melted down onto the pavement, candles long since burned out but never cleared away. Some wondered whether the place would ever be restored, whether its doors would open again to laughter and clattering plates, or whether it would be remade into something new entirely. For now, it stood as a reminder, a wound in the city's skin that had begun to heal, yet still carried the memory of Norsefire's cruelty and the pain left in its wake.
"With a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down. The medicine go down, medicine go down," Ryan sang under his breath as he strolled along the sidewalk, a bag of sugar-glazed donuts tucked under one arm while he took an unapologetic bite from another. "With a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down."
A voice called out to him from across the street, and Ryan lifted the donut in greeting, flashing a grin before shoving the rest into his mouth. He chewed with clear satisfaction, savoring every second of it before speaking again.
"Holy hell," he said, shaking his head as he swallowed, "if these ain't the best damn donuts I've ever had. New York's gotta step up its game."
Around him, the city hummed with the low, steady cadence of recovery, the sound of a world slowly stitching itself back together. Brick dust and powdered cement still clung to the streets, grit crunching beneath passing boots, while crystal-powered construction rigs groaned and hissed as pistons drove steel beams skyward under the unforgiving midday sun. Sparks flashed, gears ground, and workers shouted over the din, their voices threading through the heat like proof that Caerleon refused to remain broken.
Ryan moved through it all in quiet contrast, his white shirt already warm against his skin, black slacks dusted at the hem, the brown harness snug across his torso with his firearm resting beneath his left arm, familiar and reassuring in its weight.
He had spent most of the summer holed up in Castle Excalibur, running remedial Mundane Studies for students left adrift by the chaos of the Siege, the kind who needed structure more than sympathy. He'd gone back to New York for a week, thinking distance might settle him, only to find the silence of his apartment unbearable, the emptiness gnawing at him until he boarded the next train back without a second thought.
He chewed thoughtfully on his donut as he walked, the sweetness lingering on his tongue, an irony not lost on him given how much he'd once despised Caerleon, how fiercely he'd clung to the hard lines and concrete sprawl of Manhattan. Yet the castle had been quiet lately. Serfence was away, Workner was off chasing danger in forgotten depths, and only Lotho, Eridan, and Rasputin remained, each for reasons Ryan understood all too well.
He took the quieter route near the southern gate, where the walls still bore the scars of the Siege despite the scaffolding and fresh stonework creeping upward inch by inch. He raised another donut toward his mouth, already half-lost in thought, when the sound cut through the ambient noise.
The singing reached him first, a thin, haunting melody that drifted along the street, unfamiliar yet strangely melodic. The language was foreign, lilting and fluid, but it was not elvish, nor orcish, nor any of the dialects Ryan had come to recognize in his short time in Avalon. He slowed, brow lifting as he folded the donut back into its brown paper bag and continued down the sidewalk, the song growing clearer with every step.
As he rounded the corner, he saw her.
A child, no older than ten, stood just off the pavement. She was small, wrapped in rags darkened by age and grime, a frayed cloak hanging loosely from narrow shoulders. Snow-white hair spilled across the stone at her feet, and when she lifted her head, Ryan caught the flash of bright, molten-gold eyes. Her features were sharp, almost elven, her ears tapering to delicate points.
Then his breath caught.
Pale, pearlescent scales traced her arms and legs, draconic in form, catching the light with a soft, unnatural sheen. A thick, scaled tail curled protectively between her legs, while small wings protruded from her back, folded tight against her frame. Obsidian black horns swept back from her forehead, jagged and unmistakable. In her hands she held a weathered piece of cardboard, the painted words faded and torn by time, and before her rested a simple clay alms bowl, empty and waiting.
Beside her sat a small basket, crudely woven by hand, its fibres uneven and worn. Nestled inside were several tiny bouquets of sapphire-blue flowers, their petals carefully gathered and bound with faded pink ribbons, a fragile attempt at beauty in a place that offered her very little.
It took Ryan a moment too long to fully process what he was seeing.
He was familiar with the Therian races, humans marked by beastly traits, wolves, foxes, tigers, shapes born of fang and fur. But never had he seen one touched by dragonkind. The sight unsettled him less than it intrigued him, curiosity outweighing discomfort as his gaze lingered.
What truly held him, though, was her voice.
It was beautiful in a way that slipped past reason, threading into his bones and tightening around his heart. He could not understand the words, yet the emotion carried within them needed no translation. People passed her without slowing, some with practiced indifference, others casting thinly veiled looks of disgust her way. Watching them, Ryan's gaze narrowed, something cold and disapproving settling behind his eyes.
He shook his head once before turning toward her, closing the distance with slow, deliberate steps. When he was close enough, he raised a hand, palm open, careful not to startle her.
"Hey there," he said gently.
The moment she noticed him, the singing stopped.
Her eyes widened, and though the reaction was subtle, Ryan caught every part of it. The way her small frame arched as if bracing for impact. How her wings drew in around her shoulders, folding tight, her tail curling instinctively between her legs. Tension rippled through her body, and in her golden eyes he saw it clearly, uncertainty edged with something far older than a child should ever carry. Ryan exhaled slowly, a dull weight settling in his chest. He knew that look. The expectation of cruelty, the quiet anticipation of pain. Judging by the glances others cast her way, he did not need to piece together much more.
The little girl swallowed. "Please, good sir, I'm not being a bother." Her bottom lip trembled as she bit down on it, fighting the urge to beg outright. "I'm just… all I want is some coin for bread."
The corner of Ryan's mouth lifted into a faint, easy smile. "Relax, kid," he said. "I'm not the fuzz, and I sure as hell ain't here to rain on your parade." He slipped a hand into his pocket, posture loose, casual. "That's a pretty set of pipes you've got."
The girl tilted her head, blinking as though every word he'd said belonged to a language entirely unfamiliar. Ryan sighed softly and rolled his eyes, more amused than impatient. "I'm sayin' I'm not here to cause trouble," he clarified. "And you've got a beautiful voice."
"Oh." Her eyes widened for a heartbeat before dropping to the pavement between them, a soft flush blooming across her cheeks. "T-thank you, sir." A shy smile tugged at her lips. "No one has ever complimented me before."
"Well," Ryan said gently, "consider it a first." He tipped his head slightly. "Name's Ryan. What's yours?"
"Ryan?" She studied him, head cocked, revealing sharp teeth that were pointed but not jagged, not threatening. "That's a… strange name."
"Yeah," he replied with a quiet chuckle, "well, I'm not from around here."
She laughed softly at that, a small, genuine sound, and as she straightened, some of the tension eased from her frame. "I'm Nora," she said.
"Well, ain't that the prettiest name I've heard all day," Ryan replied. "And from a pretty little girl, no less."
Nora's smile lingered for a moment before faltering. Her gaze dropped again. "You're too kind, sir," she said quietly, "but I'm anything but pretty." Her voice softened further. "I'm a monster. Like the rest of my kind."
Ryan arched an eyebrow, already drawing breath to reply, when a low growl cut through the moment, not threatening, not feral, but unmistakably human in its origin. Hunger.
The girl's hand flew to her stomach at once, her cheeks coloring as she shrank in on herself. Ryan exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to the paper bag of donuts in his hand. After a beat, he extended it toward her.
Nora's eyes widened.
"Here," he said, softened by a crooked grin. "Ain't much, but take it from me, they're the best damned donuts this side of Caerleon."
"What? No, I couldn't possibly," she protested, lifting a clawed hand in reflex, talons gleaming obsidian-black.
Ryan bent down anyway and gently pressed the bag into her palm, the rough texture of her scales brushing his skin. "I insist," he said. "Besides, a guy my age oughta be cuttin' back on sugar." He let out an awkward chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. "And if Adani ever found out, she'd give me hell for it. Woman's got a real talent for mindin' everybody else's business."
Nora blinked, then smiled, small and fragile, her golden eyes glassing over with unshed tears.
Ryan lowered himself a little further, and as his hand lifted, hovering over her head, she flinched. Fear flickered through her gaze, sharp and reflexive, and something inside him twisted painfully. He pulled his hand back at once.
"I-I'm sorry," Nora murmured. "It's just…"
Ryan shook his head gently. "I get it, kid."
But before he could say another word, something metallic clinked sharply into the alms bowl.
Nora's gaze dropped at once, a flicker of hope lighting her face, a small, fragile smile threatening to bloom, only for it to falter almost immediately. Ryan saw it happen. The way her shoulders sagged, the way the light drained from her eyes.
It wasn't gold. Or silver.
Just a bottlecap, bent nearly in half.
Ryan's expression darkened as his gaze followed the source. Two young men were already moving past, one with his arm slung loosely around the other's shoulders. They wore matching smirks, one of them snickering as though they'd just pulled off the cleverest joke in the world. Ryan watched them reach the heavy oak door of the pub, shove it open, and disappear inside. The hinges creaked loudly before the door swung shut again, the sound swallowed by boisterous laughter within, leaving the street quiet once more.
He drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
Without a word, Ryan reached into his pocket and withdrew six platinum coins. He took Nora's small hand gently and closed her fingers around them. The moment she looked down and realized what she was holding, her breath hitched. Her knees nearly gave way, her jaw falling slack in stunned disbelief.
"Here," Ryan said softly, a reassuring smile tugging at his mouth. "Go get yourself somethin' nice."
His gaze drifted to her bare, draconic feet resting on the cold stone. "Maybe some new threads," he added gently. "And maybe some shoes… if you can find a pair that fit."
"S-sir… I-I can't accept this," Nora said, her voice pitching high as it nearly broke. "T-this… this is too much."
Ryan shook his head, firm but gentle. "Call it payment for that pretty little song earlier." He tipped his chin toward the street. "Now go on home. You earned it."
Nora's talons curled tightly around the coins, her hands trembling as the dam finally broke. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she looked up at him, her breath hitching. The cardboard sign slipped from her grasp and fell forgotten to the stone as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Ryan stiffened in surprise, his eyes widening for a heartbeat, then she pulled back just as quickly, wiping at her face with the back of her hand.
"Thank you," she said. "I'll never forget this."
She bowed softly, then turned to her basket and carefully selected one of the tiny bouquets. Stepping back, she held it out to him. "For you."
Ryan's smile softened as he accepted it. Nora gathered her basket and alms bowl, then turned and ran down the sidewalk, her snow-white hair and frayed cloak fluttering behind her as she disappeared into the street.
Ryan watched her go, his gaze lingering before dropping to the flowers in his hand. After a moment, he tucked them into the front pocket of his shirt. He rolled his neck once, slow and deliberate, then stepped forward, eyes lifting to the weathered sign of the pub where the two young men had gone inside earlier.
"You know," he muttered, flexing his fingers as his knuckles cracked, "I think I could use a drink."