Bastion slipped his hands into his pockets, his head bowed as the girls' screams faded, dissolving into little more than distant noise that still managed to claw at him all the same. His fingers curled into tight fists, the tension in his jaw drawn so hard it felt as though his teeth might crack, and yet he hunched forward beneath it all, the weight of the blade across his back suddenly unbearable, as if his sword carried the same disappointment he now felt in himself. He walked past Salazar without a word, neither of them sparing the other so much as a glance.
"So, that's it?" Salazar's words cut through him, sharp enough to halt him mid-step. "The brave Bastion Reinhardt, running away from the Authority, turning his back on the very ideals he defended so valiantly all those months ago, tail tucked neatly between his legs." He scoffed. The sound edged with contempt. "Pathetic."
"Say whatever you want, Slytherin," Bastion replied, his gaze hard even as he refused to look back. "Gods know I've earned it." He cast a brief glance toward the onlookers, and though their posture was cautious, their eyes held unmistakable disdain directed squarely at him. "But Hector's right. I'm Tower."
His words tightened. "Since the Siege, it's felt like I've been walking on eggshells every damned day. Doesn't matter what I do, good or bad, it's always one step away from turning ugly." He exhaled sharply. "And I can't risk that. I can't risk the people in my precinct getting dragged into the dirt, or worse, because I can't keep myself in check."
Salazar turned fully toward him, his expression darkening into a scowl. "Forgive me for saying so," he replied coldly, "but that is the single largest pile of refuse I have ever had the displeasure of hearing." He stepped closer, eyes burning. "Since when have you ever cared about decorum? About procedure? About conduct?"
"I saw you. The day you drew your sword on the Authority without hesitation, without a shred of doubt. You cared nothing for consequence, only for the fire inside you, because you knew. Absolutely, that what you were doing was right."
Bastion drew in a deep breath, his shoulders sagging as if the weight he carried had finally settled fully upon him. "Times change, Slytherin." He turned then, mismatched eyes meeting Salazar's, and for a fleeting moment Salazar saw it, or rather, saw the absence of it. The light that once burned so fiercely within him. It was gone.
"Frank was right," Bastion continued quietly. "I was just a dumbass rookie." His jaw tightened. "Things are bigger than me now. Bigger than all of us." He looked away. "And it's time to grow the hell up."
He continued on without slowing, lifting a single hand in a hollow gesture of farewell. "Be seeing you, Slytherin."
Salazar watched him go, silent, unmoving, until Bastion disappeared into the churn of smoke and ruin. Only then did he turn away, and even that motion felt delayed, heavy, as though his body needed time to catch up with his thoughts. He paused, drawing in a measured breath, allowing himself a moment to reckon with the surge of emotion that had flooded him only moments before.
That fire.
He had seen it before, burning bright and unyielding in Godric, and once upon a time, in Bastion as well. He had felt it now, flaring within himself, scorching his insides in a way that felt both foreign and unsettling. Control had always been his refuge. The reins he kept tight around his emotions, the careful discipline, the deliberate distance. He had built a fortress of solitude around himself, worn a mask polished smooth by years of practice, all to ensure that nothing truly touched him.
And yet, for a brief, dangerous moment, that control had slipped.
His gaze dropped to the pendant looped around his wrist, the silver chain catching the light, its golden glow faint but constant. The Parabatai bond. Old magic. Ancient, intimate, binding two souls together in ways neither fully understood. Perhaps, in some small but undeniable way, a piece of Godric was bleeding into him, seeping through the bond, stirring emotions he had long buried.
Salazar exhaled sharply and shook his head, the motion tight with unease.
Perhaps the bond had been a mistake after all.
****
"Salazar!"
Helga's voice cut through the haze, pulling his attention as both she and Rowena jogged up toward him, their gazes immediately sweeping over the devastation left in the wake of the fighting.
The avenue looked less like a street and more like a battlefield. Shattered asphalt was strewn with debris and bodies, while medical personnel moved in tight, urgent motions, tending to the injured amid shouted instructions and hurried spellwork. Firefighters clustered near their engines, voices hoarse as they fought the blaze, canvas hoses and brass nozzles roaring as torrents of water slammed into flaming storefronts.
Authority and Tower agents had formed a hard perimeter, some restraining the last Libertas stragglers as they were hauled away in chains. Helga and Rowena could only stare, shock etched into their faces, the scene bearing an unmistakable resemblance to the Siege and the atrocities Norsefire had inflicted upon Caerleon not so long ago.
"By Hecate… what happened here?" Rowena asked, barely above a stunned breath.
"A lot," Salazar replied, the word carrying more weight than it should have. "And you wouldn't believe—"
"Kaia! Kora!"
The cry drew all three of them sharply toward its source.
An elven woman with long auburn hair stood just beyond the cordon, her arms outstretched as tears streamed down her face. The moment Helga and Rowena followed her line of sight, the color drained from them entirely. Like Salazar, they recognized the figures being forced into the back of a transport. The same two girls. The same ones from all those months ago. Salazar's expression hardened, teeth grinding as something cold settled in his chest.
"Denora!" the therian girl screamed, struggling violently against the agent restraining her. "Denora, help us!"
"Help us!" the human girl cried as well, her voice breaking, only to be cut short when one of the agents drove a fist into her gut, doubling her over.
"No, stop. Let them go!" Denora sobbed, surging forward in desperation, only to be halted by a massive hand closing firmly around her shoulder.
She turned, eyes widening as they lifted to the orc who loomed over her, his moss-green skin stretched across a broad, powerful frame that radiated quiet strength. Black braids were woven into his hair in a rough mohawk, framing a face marked by jutting tusks and a bold tribal tattoo that ran from the right side of his forehead, cut across his eye, and tapered down to his chin in stark black ink. He wore a white shirt with the first few buttons left undone, the fabric pulled taut over his chest, paired with worn brown leather trousers and heavy boots that looked more than capable of crushing stone underfoot.
"Let me go, Ruben!" Denora cried, struggling against his grip, but the orc did not relent.
"There's nothing you can do for them now, Denora," he said quietly, though his dark gaze remained steady. "I warned them what would happen if they left the confines of the Haven."
The girls' cries rose into shrill desperation, only to be cut short as they were shoved bodily into the back of the transport. Steel doors slammed shut with a final, echoing clang, the sound swallowing their voices whole and leaving an awful, ringing silence in its wake.
"I have to help them!" Denora sobbed, twisting violently as she tried to tear herself free. "We have to help them!"
"That's enough, Denora!" Ruben thundered, sharp and commanding, loud enough to stop her cold. She froze, eyes wide, breath hitching as fear flickered across her face. At once, his expression softened, though the tension in his body did not ease in the slightest. "You shouldn't even be here," he said more quietly, though the strain in his voice remained. "We need to get you back—"
"And what do we have here?"
Ruben and Denora both snapped their gazes upward. Ruben's eyes widened as the young man stepped into view, a sword already clutched in his hand, its presence unmistakable. Instinctively, Ruben shifted forward, placing himself between the newcomer and Denora, his broad frame shielding her as she trembled behind him, fear threatening to steal the strength from her legs.
"Hector," Ruben said at last, the name leaving his mouth with visible unease.
"Ruben." Hector's reply was cool, clipped, his grip tightening around the royal blue scabbard at his side.
"So," Ruben continued, forcing a thin, uneasy smirk, "you're the one the Administratum decided to place in charge of Caerleon." His gaze flicked briefly over Hector's uniform before returning to his face. "I'd say it's fitting, all things considered. Given your reputation."
Hector offered no response. His eyes slid past Ruben, settling for a brief moment on the elven girl cowering behind him, before returning with quiet focus. "Another runaway under your protection, I see," he said evenly.
He gestured back over his shoulder with a slight tilt of his head, the movement casual, almost dismissive. "Just like those two," he said, a thin scoff following close behind. "A pity, really. The folly of the foolish and the stubborn, repeating itself without fail."
His gaze drifted, lingering on Denora for the briefest moment, and though his expression never wavered from its cold composure, his words took on a sharp, mocking edge. "Still, it hardly matters. Obedience is a state every slave learns eventually, no matter how long it takes, or how brutally it must be beaten into them. In the end, they always understand their place." His eyes hardened. "Just as they will."
Denora's face twisted with fury, her breath hitching as she surged forward on instinct, only for Ruben to lift a firm hand in front of her, stopping her short without ever taking his eyes off Hector.
Then came the sound.
Steel whispered against steel, and Ruben's gaze dropped despite himself, drawn to the subtle movement of Hector's hand as his thumb pressed against the guard, easing the blade free by a fraction. Just enough. A narrow sliver of silver caught the light, gleaming like a promise left unspoken, and in that moment, the air between them tightened, heavy with threat, history, and the knowledge that this exchange was balanced on the edge of something far more violent than words.
"But I digress," Hector continued, his tone smoothing into something almost conversational, though the edge beneath it never dulled. "You know the law as well as I do. I fully acknowledge that Caerleon holds the designation of a Sanctuary City." He leaned in closer. "And yet, it would seem you and your charge are a very long way from what you'd consider hallowed ground."
"Hector," Ruben warned, his expression hardening as his shoulders squared, "don't."
As Hector's hand hovered over the hilt of his blade, the tension between them drew taut, stretched to a breaking point, and then something cut through it with violent finality. A flash of blackened steel tore through the air and struck the stone steps leading up to a nearby townhouse, the impact detonating with such force that concrete split apart, spiderwebbing outward from the point of impact as fragments skittered across the pavement.
The spear stood where it had struck, embedded deep into the stone like a boundary drawn between Hector and Ruben, its double-edged obsidian blade carved with serpent motifs that seemed almost alive as they caught the light. A low, resonant hum pulsed through the metal, vibrating faintly through the fractured stone, while a torn strip of emerald fabric bound beneath the main blade stirred gently in the unsettled air, a quiet, unmistakable warning made manifest.
Hector's expression darkened as he turned his head, his gaze locking onto Salazar, and for a heartbeat the world narrowed to the space between them. Emerald eyes met dark ones, both burning with a restrained, simmering fury that promised far more than it revealed. Helga and Rowena stared in open shock, the sudden escalation stealing the breath from their lungs.
Salazar stepped forward, his posture relaxed, every movement precise, controlled, and brimming with intent. "My apologies, Commander," he said, the title slipping from his tongue like an insult. A thin, dangerous smile tugged at his mouth as his eyes never left Hector's. "It would seem my hand slipped." He tilted his head slightly. "I've been dreadfully careless as of late."
"Black hair. Green eyes." Hector's gaze drifted back to the spear for a lingering second before lifting again to Salazar, measured and appraising. "And a spear as black as night itself. I take it you are Salazar Slytherin."
The smirk on Salazar's face widened into something sharp and unapologetic as he swept into an exaggerated bow, one hand pressed to his chest. "The one and only." He straightened, tilting his head just enough to study Hector in return. "And I couldn't help but overhear your name being spoken rather freely during a rather lively discussion back in Stornoway." A pause. "Commander Hector Khan… or would you prefer King Khan?"
The name rippled outward at once.
Rowena stiffened, her eyes widening, while Helga's jaw dropped a fraction before she caught herself.
"Wait," Helga blurted, incredulous, "that's Hector Khan?"
Hector paused, eyes closing as a short, weary breath slipped past his lips, as though the weight of the title itself had grown tiresome. When he opened them again, his gaze was steady, his expression carefully composed as he swept a gloved hand back through his hair. "It would appear," he said dryly, "that our reputations precede us." His eyes lingered on Salazar. "Though I must admit, I am genuinely surprised to find mine occupying space in your thoughts."
Salazar's smile never reached his eyes. "I make it a habit to know every vermin I am forced to acknowledge," he replied, edged with a quiet, simmering contempt. "Especially those that crawl out of the nest known as the Authority."
Hector let out a low chuckle, the sound almost amused despite the tension coiling between them. "Then I take it you hold no love for the Authority." He inclined his head slightly, gaze flicking past Salazar for the briefest moment. "A sentiment you share quite closely with Gryffindor, it seems."
"A brilliant deduction, Commander," Salazar drawled as he extended his hand, fingers curling slightly. The spear answered at once, shuddering where it stood before tearing free of the stone and snapping back into his grasp with a sharp, metallic hiss. He spun it once, fluid and effortless, the twin blades slicing clean arcs through the air before he lowered it to his side. "I suppose now you'll inform me that I'm currently in violation of the Ius Servitium. Obstruction of an Authority officer, interference with lawful detention, or whatever other clause happens to suit the moment."
His expression hardened, angling the spear ahead of him. The obsidian steel rasped against the asphalt as he dragged the blade along the road, the sound harsh and grating, sparks flashing as a shallow furrow was carved into the stone beneath their feet. "That being said," he continued evenly, though the edge beneath his words was unmistakable, "I am going to ask you. Politely, that you let them leave. Here. Now. Without incident."
Hector's jaw tightened as his hand closed more firmly around the scabbard, the leather of his gloves stretching with the pressure. His gaze remained locked on Salazar. "And pray tell, lad," he replied at last, "why would I do that?"
"Would it help if I said pretty please?" Salazar's smirk widened. The expression simmering with a quiet, venomous amusement. "After all, it must have been a long and tiring journey all the way from the Crown City. I'm sure the comforts of your bed, perhaps accompanied by a warm cup of tea, would serve your interests far better than lingering here."
Hector eased the blade a fraction farther from its scabbard, the whisper of steel barely audible, but his attention shifted despite himself, drawn past Salazar to the two girls standing behind him. One, auburn-haired, struck her fist into her palm with barely restrained fury. While the other, dark-haired, watched him with sharp sapphire eyes, her hand clenched around something concealed within her jacket, ready and waiting.
The seconds stretched, taut and heavy, before Hector finally exhaled, long and controlled, his thumb guiding the blade back until the guard met the scabbard with a firm, unmistakable click. His eyes closed briefly, as if sealing a decision.
"You are correct, Slytherin," he said at last. "It has indeed been a long journey, and I fear I may have overexerted myself." His gaze slid toward Ruben and then to Denora, cool and assessing. "And as I mentioned earlier, the folly of the foolish has a habit of repeating itself, and where repetition exists, so too do opportunities."
With that, he turned and began to walk back toward the armored vehicles and the cluster of Authority agents, pausing only once. He glanced over his shoulder, fixing Salazar with a level stare. "However, I leave you with a single consideration. The law is the law, and like all laws, it is absolute. Your personal feelings, your perspectives, and even your sense of righteousness are ultimately irrelevant."
Salazar's gaze narrowed, the tension coiling tighter in his chest.
"And while you may carry with you a fleeting sense of victory in this moment," Hector continued, "understand this. I take no pleasure in wetting my blade with the blood of children." He allowed the words to linger, heavy and unmistakable, before continuing. "That said, I am a man of duty, one I have never failed nor faltered from. There will come a time when my blade will know neither distinction nor hesitation." His tone hardened. "Do with that knowledge what you will."
He turned away again, boots crunching against the debris-strewn street as he walked. "And be mindful," he added without glancing back, "my colleagues may not share in my restraint."
"Worry not, my dear Commander," Salazar called after him, the words carrying just enough bite to force Hector to halt mid-stride.
The light caught Salazar's eyes as they flared amber for the briefest heartbeat, the pupils narrowing into something unmistakably serpentine. The smile that followed was thin, stripped of any warmth, a predator's courtesy offered without pretense.
"Infamy and reputation may weigh heavily on certain individuals, but you would do well to remember this," Salazar continued. "Men like you may dress morality in words such as duty or perspective, but in the eyes of all, from the enlightened to the ignorant, even the most foolish among us can tell the difference between a good man and a wicked one by how he treats his fellow man." His gaze narrowed just a fraction. "And even a fool understands the nature of a man who would stand in defense of keeping another in chains."
Hector's expression hardened, the mask of composure tightening.
"And I can say this with complete sincerity," Salazar continued, "none of us fear men who have grown comfortable antagonizing the weak and the helpless." He dipped his head just enough to parody respect, the gesture sharp with contempt rather than courtesy.
"So take my propitious advice back to your brethren," Salazar said. "Tell them to keep their wits about them, because out here, it won't be mere children they find." The words settled, dark and heavy. "It will be monsters, and no matter where you go. Whether under the warmth of the sun or the serenity of the stars, our fangs, our claws, will be sharp and ready." His gaze narrowed, the promise clear. "And unlike the timid and broken you've grown so accustomed to, we bite back… hard."
For a moment, Hector did not turn. He stood perfectly still, the weight of Salazar's gaze pressing against his back. Then he exhaled, slow and controlled, a breath that carried with it the faintest fracture in his composure, something unreadable passing through before it was sealed away again.
"So it seems," he replied.
Without another word, he walked away, his figure disappearing into the ordered chaos of armored vehicles and Authority ranks, leaving the tension behind him hanging in the air like the echo of a drawn blade.
****
"That was brave, lad," Ruben said at last, cutting through the tension and drawing Salazar's attention. His expression was hard, appraising. "Brave, but foolish." He lifted his chin, eyes tracking the direction Hector had gone. "Gods know you were fortunate today. Very fortunate. Had Hector been a lesser man, I'd wager this street would have been where you drew your final breath."
"Yeah?" Helga shot back, a crooked smirk tugging at her lips as she folded her arms with easy confidence. "No offense, but we're not exactly made of candy." Her gaze drifted upward then, the tension bleeding into something characteristically Helga as she licked her lips and sighed, half-distracted. "Though… now that you mention it, I could really go for some."
"Helga," Rowena sighed, the sound weary rather than reproachful. Her gaze returned to Salazar, sharp and searching as she stepped closer, one finger lifting as if to punctuate every word. "That being said." She studied him, incredulous. "What were you thinking, provoking him like that when you knew exactly who he was?" Her words tightened. "Were you actively trying to get yourself killed?"
Salazar took a step back, a grin tugging at his mouth, though there was a faint edge of unease beneath it that betrayed how close the moment had come to tipping the wrong way. "Well… I—"
Rowena sighed and pressed her fingers to her temple, the gesture weary rather than reproachful. "I understand, Salazar, more than you realize. Hecate knows we all share a rather profound disdain for the Authority."
She let her hand fall, her expression steadying as she met his gaze. "But as I've told you before, and will no doubt have to tell you again, they are a legal entity. We may dislike them. We may oppose what they represent, and even recoil from the way they wield their power, but they are nonetheless woven into the very foundations of Avalon itself."
"She is right, you know," Ruben added, a faint, thoughtful smile settling on his lips as he regarded Salazar before turning his attention to Rowena. "Diplomatic, measured, and possessed of a remarkably steady head on your shoulders. Exactly what one would expect of a Ravenclaw."
Rowena blinked, genuine surprise flashing across her features. "You know me?"
"Of course," Ruben replied easily, his gaze sweeping over the three of them in turn. "I would wager that most of Caerleon knows your names by now, and more importantly, what you have done for this city." He straightened slightly. Posture proud without arrogance. "Ruben Caryon. I run one of the few Havens still operating here in Caerleon."
At that, Denora narrowed her eyes, studying them more closely, until recognition struck and her expression brightened in sudden realization. "Wait… I remember." She gestured between them, excitement cutting through the lingering fear. "You were there that day, with that girl. The one with the long blonde hair in braids, and that Guardian."
"Jeanne!" Helga's face lit up instantly, her smile warm and unmistakable. "And you were one of the slaves he saved," she said. "Along with that man."
Denora nodded, a softness overtaking her features. "Donaldson," she said quietly. "My love." A small smile touched her lips. "He's been working tirelessly to earn my freedom, though there have been… complications."
Her gaze drifted then, following the armored vehicles as they disappeared down the street, their engines fading into the distance. The smile faltered. "And now… Kaia… Kora." She closed her eyes, jaw tightening as she drew in a shaky breath. When she opened them again, they glistened. "I told them. I warned them." Her voice broke just slightly. "And now…"
Salazar drew in a sharp breath, the tension in his chest settling as his emerald gaze shifted back to Ruben. "Just now, Hector mentioned that Caerleon is a Sanctuary City," he said, his tone measured but intent. "And you've said you run a Haven. Forgive me, but I'm afraid those terms are… unfamiliar to me."
Ruben inclined his head, understanding softening his expression. "That's hardly surprising. It isn't knowledge widely shared, given the rather…" His eyes flicked briefly to Denora, his hand resting reassuringly on her shoulder. "Sensitive nature of the matter. A Sanctuary City is a place where runaway slaves may seek exactly what the name implies, sanctuary. Those fleeing abuse, exploitation, or even death itself are permitted to seek food, shelter, and protection beyond the reach of their masters."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "That protection is offered through places known as Safe Havens."
"So," Helga said, tilting her head as she processed it, "it's basically somewhere slaves can go and not be afraid all the time."
"More or less," Ruben replied. "We provide refuge to slaves of every age and race." His gaze lowered. "Some of them no older than ten."
Rowena inhaled sharply, her eyes widening as the weight of that settled over her.
Salazar's expression darkened. "Excuse my skepticism if I question the practicality of it. You've seen the Authority. You know what they're capable of. I find it difficult to believe that four walls and good intentions would stop them from storming a Haven and dragging every escaped slave back in chains."
"That would be true," Ruben said calmly, "if a Haven were merely a building. In reality, it is consecrated ground where the Ius Servitium is suspended entirely. Within its bounds, the Slavers' Guild has no legal authority whatsoever." A faint, wry smile touched his lips. "Furthermore, there are Barristers who specialize solely in slave law, men and women who dedicate their lives to defending the enslaved."
He let out a quiet chuckle. "You can be certain the Guild despises every one of us with a passion."
Salazar returned the smile, sharp and humorless. "I can imagine. Take what they call property out of their grasp, and suddenly there's nothing they can do to reclaim it." He shook his head slowly. "I'd wager they're seething, and frankly, they deserve every second of it."
"Is there…" Rowena began, one hand lifting instinctively to her chest as the weight of the moment settled in. "Is there anything we can do, Mister Caryon? For you, for the Haven?"
Ruben answered with a gentle smile, raising a hand in quiet reassurance. "You've done more than enough," he said, his gaze sweeping across the three of them with open sincerity. "All of you." His eyes lingered on Salazar a moment longer, thoughtful. "Especially you, Mister Slytherin. Foolish and reckless though it may have been, you have my gratitude nonetheless." He rested a steady hand on Denora's shoulder. "Now, I should get her back to the Haven."
"Thank you," Denora said softly, bowing her head.
Rowena, Helga, and Salazar returned her gesture with small smiles, and Salazar stepped forward just enough to catch her attention. As he moved, the spear slipped from his grasp in a blur of motion, splitting cleanly before settling back into its place across his back as though it had never left him.
"Denora," he said evenly, meeting her gaze. "Hold faith. One day, there will be change in Avalon. You'll see."
A quiet smile touched her lips as she glanced up at Ruben, who returned it with calm assurance. "If any of you ever wish to visit," he added, "perhaps to say hello to the children, you'd be welcome any time." With that, he nodded once, and together they turned, disappearing down the sidewalk.
Salazar watched them go, his eyes narrowing slightly, the words lingering on his tongue as much as in his mind. "You'll see."
"Well," Helga said suddenly, clapping her hands together with renewed energy, "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Let's grab some lunch, and then we're hitting the Pixie Pantry." She spun on her heel and set off at once, arms swinging with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Rowena followed with a resigned roll of her eyes, though a soft smile curved her lips as she went. Salazar lingered only a moment longer, taking in the wreckage, the scorch marks, the empty space where the transport had vanished, and the quiet stretch of street where Ruben and Denora had disappeared, before drawing a slow breath and turning to follow after them.
****
The precinct's doors, thick and heavy, carved from dark oak and scarred by years of use, were thrown wide as Bastion stepped inside, the measured tap of his boots echoing against the polished black-and-white checkered tiles beneath his feet. The moment he crossed the threshold, he was met with pure, unfiltered chaos. Telephones rang without pause, their shrill cries bleeding into one another as guards, agents, and aurors rushed across the floor in frantic currents, arms full of hastily printed reports that scattered loose pages in their wake.
Voices rose and overlapped, some sharp with anger, others strained with urgency, a few clinging to calm professionalism that threatened to fracture at any moment. At the reception desk, a knot of citizens pressed forward, faces twisted with fury as they shouted over one another, while the guards behind the counter stood pale and tense, hands raised in futile attempts to placate the storm bearing down on them.
Bastion needed no report to tell him the cause. The Libertas incident, barely hours old, had already detonated into this mess, and in the most predictable fashion imaginable, the same people who had spent weeks spitting at the feet of anyone wearing Tower colors were now here, demanding protection as though it were their birthright. The thought earned a bitter scoff from him as he kept his hands buried in his pockets and moved toward the marble steps leading deeper into the building. He had stayed behind in Caerleon believing, stubbornly, that he could do more good here than tucked away in Camelot, no matter how much Frank had tried to talk sense into him.
Reinhardt stubbornness, Frank had called it, and Bastion knew he hadn't been wrong. Yet as the days wore on, it became harder to deny that the wounds carved into the city ran deeper than shattered stone and burned storefronts. Caerleon wasn't merely slow to heal. It seemed unwilling to forgive. Curses had become part of his daily routine, insults flung as casually as greetings, and scrubbing spoiled produce and sour milk from his uniform had turned into just another Tuesday. At first, he had told himself he could endure it, that their anger was earned, that time and consistency would prove he was different, that eventually they would see him as one of the good ones.
But with each passing day, that belief wore thinner, rubbed raw by repetition, until he found himself questioning whether any amount of good would ever be enough. They no longer saw Bastion Reinhardt when they looked at him. They saw the uniform, the badge, and everything it represented, all of it stained by Burgess' shadow, and no matter how far he stood from that man, it seemed the city was determined to paint him with the same brush.
He threaded his way between the rows of crowded desks, shoulders brushing past hurried figures as the precinct pressed in around him. The air carried the bitter tang of cheap, overboiled coffee rising from chipped porcelain mugs, tangled with the metallic scent of ink as quills scraped tirelessly across parchment and stacked reports. Every guard, agent, and auror looked worn thin, bodies pushed beyond reason, working double and even triple shifts to compensate for the numbers lost in the Tower's quiet hemorrhage of manpower.
Many had turned in their badges without ceremony, whether out of shame or simple self-preservation, choosing their families and their lives over an institution that had become poison by association. Even the faintest trace of Tower affiliation was enough to paint a target on one's back, and few were willing to bear that risk any longer.
Those who remained were a different sort entirely. Some stayed because they believed, stubbornly, that the Tower could still be salvaged. Others remained because fear had rooted them in place, their oaths binding them tighter than any chain. And then there were those who had broken those oaths outright, who had done wrong beneath the cover of authority, and now lived in dread of consequences catching up to them.
The stories had spread like a contagion through the Tower's ranks, whispered in hallways and muttered over late-night drinks, tales of the Inquisition moving with surgical precision, of the now Dark Prince of Ventus carving through corruption with the same merciless resolve that had made his father, now Director of the Clock Tower, a name spoken with equal parts reverence and terror. No level was untouched, no rank spared, not even the janitor who mopped the marble floors of the Citadel before dawn.
Bastion's mismatched eyes lingered on the faces behind the desks as he passed, and what he saw there unsettled him more than the chaos at the entrance ever could. The fire was fading. That spark of conviction, of purpose, dulled to embers behind tired eyes and set jaws. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to Salazar Slytherin, to words that had once cut deep, sharp as blades driven into his chest.
They should have hurt more, should have bled him raw, but now they echoed hollowly, striking something already worn away. In that emptiness, he caught a glimpse of understanding, of the exhaustion he had once seen in Frank's eyes, of the cold, distant gaze his grandfather had carried like armor.
And for the first time since he had chosen to stay in Caerleon, Bastion found himself wondering, with a quiet dread settling in his chest, whether he truly had the strength left to keep going at all.
"Hey, Bastion!"
The call cut through the din, drawing his attention to a woman in standard Guardian grays, her hip braced against an oaken desk as she stood with her arms folded, a steaming cup of coffee cradled in one hand. Her dark complexion was framed by thick, dark crimson dreadlocks that faded into platinum-blonde tips at her shoulders, a gray bandana tied across her forehead. When her dark eyes settled on him, there was no mistaking the familiarity in her gaze.
"Nyla," Bastion greeted as he made his way over, his eyes drifting past her to the chaos still rippling across the floor. "Place looks like hell, doesn't it?"
She scoffed. "You're tellin' me." She took a sip from her mug, the burnt, watered-down scent of beans wafting up, and the way her face twisted made it clear it tasted exactly as bad as it smelled. With the same mug, she gestured loosely toward him. "Heard you were right in the middle of that mess."
"Yeah," Bastion replied with a shrug. "You'd think those Libertas bastards would show a little more restraint, all things considered." He shook his head. "I don't mind seeing the Authority get knocked on their asses, but not when it comes at the expense of the city and the people living in it."
"Well, revolutions don't take days off, and neither do we," Nyla said dryly. "Looks like another late night for everyone." She sighed, rolling her shoulders. "I've already been away from my kid too long as it is." Her eyes flicked to him, one brow lifting. "Must be nice, being single and all."
Bastion chuckled, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, settling down was your call." He grinned faintly. "Listening to Frank rant about his messy divorce for a whole damned year was more than enough to scare me straight." His smile faded as he drew a slow breath, the weight settling back in. "Gods know I saw what it did to my granddad."
Nyla shrugged, rolling one shoulder as she drummed her fingers idly against her arm. "Happens to most of us Tower kids, honestly. I love my old man, but growing up, I spent more nights wishing he'd been home than I care to admit." Her mouth pulled into a thin, rueful smile. "Kind of comes with the badge."
Bastion let out a slow breath. "Yeah," he murmured, the word carrying more weight than it ought to have.
His gaze drifted past her then, catching on a pair of young men slumped along a bench against the far wall. Both were a mess of bruises and dried blood. Split lips, knuckles scabbed raw, crimson stains smeared across their clothes and skin. One had an eye swollen shut and a hastily wrapped brace around his leg, while the other sat stiffly with his arm cradled in a sling. What teeth they had left were chipped or broken outright.
He tilted his head toward them. "Who're the clowns back there?" he asked. "Because I don't know about you, but they look like a couple of morons who'd start throwing punches after one too many pints."
Nyla snorted. "You're not wrong." She took another sip of her coffee. "Except this time, they didn't start it."
Bastion glanced back at her, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "You're kidding."
"Nope, dead serious," Nyla replied. "From what we got out of them, some guy walks up, offers to buy them a drink. They toast, knock back a shot, and then he asks them one question." She paused, lifting her brows. "Something along the lines of, 'You sons of bitches get your rocks off throwing your garbage at little girls?'" She gave a small shrug. "I don't think I need to spell out what happened after that."
"Gods above," Bastion muttered, grimacing as he looked back at the battered pair. "Looks like whoever it was really went to town on them. Did they give you a description?"
"Sort of," Nyla said. "Bits and pieces at best." She tilted her mug slightly. "Both of them were unconscious when we found them, so whatever details they had were already rattling loose."
Bastion let out a quiet scoff. "Well, I don't know what they did exactly, or which bastard they pissed off, but I bet they earned every bit of it." He shrugged, the matter settling easily in his mind. "Either way, I'm beat. Gonna grab forty winks before I head back out on patrol." He gave her a small nod. "Be seein' you, Nyla."
"Don't go workin' yourself into the ground now, you hear?" she called after him, lifting her mug in a casual toast as she watched him disappear into the bustle of the precinct.
****
Bastion reached his desk at last, the familiar stretch of worn oak offering little comfort as he slipped the holster of his greatsword from his shoulder and leaned the massive weapon carefully against the side of the table. He sank into his leather chair with a weary exhale, letting it creak beneath his weight, then leaned back and closed his eyes. One leg crossed over the other as he draped a hand across his face, fingers pressing into his temples as though he might grind the tension out of his skull by force alone. His breath came out sharp, chest rising and falling under a burden that felt heavier than steel.
"Um… excuse me?"
Bastion cracked one eye open.
Standing before his desk was a young man with a posture too straight to be natural. His short black hair was neatly groomed and slicked back, his tanned complexion unmarked by wear, and his dark eyes held a focused attentiveness as they settled squarely on Bastion. He wore the muted grays of the Guardians with textbook precision, the coat fastened and immaculate, not a single crease out of place, and beneath it, holstered snugly at his sides, were a pair of weapons Bastion didn't immediately recognize.
He didn't need to ask to know what he was looking at. The faint, chemical-clean scent of new fabric still clung to the man's uniform, the leather of his boots gleaming with a polish that hadn't yet known dust, blood, or ash. Everything about him was untouched, untested, practically shouting new blood. A fresh graduate from the Academy, still carrying the shine of ideals that hadn't yet been dulled by reality.
"Are you Lieutenant Reinhardt?" the man asked.
"Yeah?" Bastion tilted his head slightly, suspicion edging into his tone. "And who's asking?"
The young man snapped to attention and saluted with crisp precision. "Agent Raul Reyes, reporting for duty, sir," he said. "I've been assigned…" He hesitated just a fraction, then finished, "as your new partner."
A beat of silence followed.
Bastion's eye flew wide as his hand dropped from his face, his chair scraping softly as he snapped upright and fixed the young man with a disbelieving stare.
"Say what to the what now?!"