The minutes crept by amid the clamor of the bustling precinct, and in that small pocket of space between them, the noise seemed to dull as the two men stood in stunned silence. One was caught in confused trepidation, the other in pure, unfiltered shock. Bastion remained rooted to the spot, the words still echoing in his head, his body slow to respond as the weight of them settled in.
The young man standing before him was barely out of the Academy, a rookie not unlike Bastion himself had been only a few years prior, and for a fleeting, unwelcome moment, the image of Frank's face flashed in his mind, drawn tight with the same disbelief, the same weary resignation. Now the roles had shifted, and Bastion found himself standing where Frank once had, staring at a partner he had neither expected nor asked for.
"Hold on. No, back up!" Bastion finally said, shaking his head as if the motion alone might undo what he'd just heard. His hands lifted, cutting through the air as he spoke. "Did you just say partner? No, no, this has to be some kind of mistake."
Raúl raised an eyebrow, unfazed, and reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He withdrew a folded sheet of paper and held it out between them with calm precision. "You are Lieutenant Sebastian Reinhardt, correct?" he asked, tapping the document lightly. "Orders came straight from the brass. From here on out, you and I are pretty much joined at the hip."
Bastion snatched the letter from his hand, eyes scanning it line by line, faster and faster, until the words began to blur together. With each sentence, his eyes widened further, disbelief hardening into something inescapable as the truth took shape. He looked up at Raúl, then back down at the page, then up again, as if caught in a loop he couldn't break, the contents of the letter dissolving into a garbled haze even as their meaning sank in all too clearly.
His knees threatened to give way, a faint hitch catching in his breath as his jaw loosened despite himself, and just as he lifted his head to find his voice, a familiar one cut cleanly through the din.
"Ah, Bastion!"
His gaze snapped toward the sound of a cane tapping rhythmically against the tiled floor as Elias approached, his presence unmistakable even before he fully came into view. The man was dressed in Guardian grays, the long coat worn neatly over a black three-piece suit, polished loafers clicking softly with each measured step. Black leather gloves covered his hands, one resting atop the handle of his walking stick, while the Sheriff's badge gleamed from where it was pinned to his coat.
"I was hoping to catch you before you headed back out on patrol," Elias said, his dull, assessing eyes settling on Bastion as he came to a stop, both gloved palms folding over the top of the cane as it stood upright before him. Then his attention shifted, briefly, to the young man before Bastion's desk. "I see you've met Private Reyes."
Raúl straightened instinctively.
"Top of his class," Elias continued, a note of approval threading through his otherwise even tone. "Smart, efficient, a touch green around the ears, but that will fade soon enough." A faint, knowing curve tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I thought Caerleon would be an appropriate place for him to cut his teeth, and really," his gaze returned to Bastion, steady and pointed, "who better to show him the ropes than Wilhelm's boy?"
Bastion stood there for a moment longer, the shock ebbing just enough for something sharper to take its place. His expression darkened, teeth flashing as his jaw tightened. "Oh, okay, I get it," he shot back. "First chance you get and you saddle me with a rookie, just like I got saddled with Frank." He tilted his head toward Raúl without looking at him. "Tell me, is this some kind of sick joke you people up top like to play on those of us down in the trenches, or is this your way of getting back at my grandfather?"
For a heartbeat, Elias only stared at him, dull eyes widening slightly, and then he broke. A startled laugh escaped him, quickly turning into full-bodied laughter as he covered his eyes with one gloved hand and nearly doubled over. His walking stick tapped sharply against the tile once, then again, the sound slicing through the surrounding noise. Bastion's irritation only flared hotter, while Raúl watched in growing concern.
"What's so Godsdamned funny, old man?!" Bastion snarled.
Elias drew in a breath, still chuckling as he straightened. "By the Gods," he said, shaking his head, "I haven't laughed like that in years." A grin lingered on his face as he looked at Bastion anew. "Those were the exact same damned words your grandfather threw at the Chief when he was your age. Freshly minted lieutenant, stripes barely sewn on, swagger for days."
The fire in Bastion's expression faltered.
"Oh, he was livid," Elias went on, waving a hand as if brushing aside a memory that still amused him. "I'm fairly certain half the Citadel heard him carrying on in the Chief's office." He gave a small shrug. "And the rookie he was paired with?" His grin widened. "I'll give you three guesses."
Bastion stared at him. "No way… you?"
Elias slapped his thigh with a laugh. "And we have a winner." His mirth softened into something warmer, more reflective. "I won't lie to you. We had a rough start. Your granddad was fire and fury wrapped in muscle, fuse soaked in gas day and night. Man talked more with his fists than his mouth." His gaze grew gentler. "But it worked, in its own way. He learned from me, just as I learned from him."
He looked at Bastion steadily then. "And Frank?" Elias added. "He learned plenty from the both of you. You left a hell of an impression on him, you know. Spent his whole career trying to dodge the captain's chair, swearing he wanted nothing to do with it." A faint, knowing smile tugged at his lips. "Funny how things turn out, isn't it?"
Bastion's expression eased further as Elias stepped closer, the levity giving way to something more earnest. "I'll be straight with you, kid," Elias said quietly. "I've read your files. I've heard your name echoed across just about every damned floor of the Citadel." His gaze stayed fixed on Bastion, steady and unflinching. "And I know this much. Once upon a time, you burned every bit as hot as your grandfather ever did."
Bastion felt his breath hitch, the words striking closer than he cared to admit.
Elias drew a slow breath and let it out. "But when we met that day," he continued, "Well, it didn't take a blind man to tell you've been off your game."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"So, here's the deal," Elias went on, tilting his chin toward Raúl. "You take the kid. Give him the good old Reinhardt runaround. Push him, teach him, make him earn his stripes." A faint grin touched his lips as he clapped a hand against Bastion's shoulder and stepped past him, his walking stick tapping a steady rhythm against the floor. "Who knows? He might just surprise you."
Elias paused only long enough to glance back over his shoulder. "And if you're lucky," he added, "you just might surprise yourself."
Raúl snapped to attention and saluted as Elias passed.
"Be seeing you both," Elias said, lifting his hand in a casual, almost careless wave as he turned away, the steady tap of his walking stick resuming against the tile. "And do try not to burn the city to the ground while you're at it."
With that, he moved on, his presence swallowed by the flow of bodies and raised voices, leaving Bastion and Raúl standing amid the relentless noise and motion of the precinct, the weight of what had just been said settling in far heavier than the chaos surrounding them.
Bastion let out a rough, weary breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing as he shook his head as if trying to dislodge the situation from his skull. When he opened them again, Raúl was still there, watching him with a cautious sort of patience.
"So… um…" Raúl began, then trailed off.
"Well, you're not wrong," Bastion said, snapping his gaze up and fixing him with a look that made Raúl straighten instinctively. "Looks like I'm stuck with you." He shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced briefly at the clock mounted above the floor. "It's lunch, and I'm in the mood for tamales. Problem is, I can't exactly go back to my usual spot, seeing as I just threw Mama Imelda's damned son behind bars."
His eyes slid back to Raúl. "You know anywhere else I can go?"
Raúl blinked once. Then again. His mouth twisted slightly. "Is… is this some kind of hazing thing?" he asked, uncertainty creeping into his tone. He gestured to himself. "Because you just assumed that I, of all people, would know where to find tamales in this city."
Bastion held his stare, flat and unreadable.
Raúl sighed, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. "Yeah," he said at last. "I know a place." He jerked his head toward the stairwell. "Come on."
He turned and started off without waiting.
Bastion reached for the handle of his greatsword, securing the straps across his torso as he followed after him. The word partner still sat strangely in his mind, unfamiliar and faintly unsettling, but there it was, his new reality whether he liked it or not.
He caught up to Raúl as they approached the stairs. "And for the record," Bastion added, "I wasn't trying to stereotype."
Raúl glanced over at him, dark eyes unreadable.
"First day on the job, Frank asked me if I knew a good place for sandwiches," Bastion said, a dry scoff escaping him, more tired than annoyed. "Turns out, I did."
Raúl's lips curved into a faint smile as they headed down the steps together.
****
The amber glow of the hearthfire crackled softly against the old stone of the fireplace, spilling warmth and light across the shadowed interior of the tavern. The scent of roasted pork and thick, hearty stew lingered from the worn floorboards to the rafters above, mingling with the low hum of conversation as the people of Meyruelle spoke in easy, familiar tones. Godric found the place immediately comforting as he sat at a wooden table by the window, watching the aged cobblestones outside where townsfolk went about their day with unhurried purpose. It reminded him of home, of Dark's Hollow, that quiet village on the fringes of England where strangers were rare and familiarity was a kind of unspoken bond.
What struck him most, however, was the absence of attention. No one crowded him. No one lingered near his table. No glances strayed in his direction, no flicker of curiosity sparked, no moment of recognition tightened a face with awe or surprise. The Lion of Ignis. The Hero of Caerleon. The boy whose name drifted through every corner of Avalon, spoken as easily in gilded dining halls as in the smoke-stained hush of taverns such as this one.
They knew who he was. Admiration, fear, resentment, it made little difference. That knowledge alone was often enough to shape how people moved around him, how they chose distance over familiarity.
But here, far from the din of Camelot and the scarred streets of Caerleon, he was none of those things. Here, he was simply a boy, sitting by a window, unremarkable and unburdened, if only for a little while. Godric let out a quiet chuckle, his crimson eyes settling on the froth of his ale, amused and faintly unsettled all at once. Barely a year into his time at Excalibur, barely a year in Avalon itself, and he had already accrued a reputation most could only dream of, or dread.
For a moment, he wondered if this was how it had begun for Uther Pendragon, one of the Five Heroes, when he had still been nothing more than a nameless ranger from a town not unlike Dark's Hollow, before his name grew heavy with legend and permanence. The thought made Godric shake his head, a small, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. It would be a cold day in Hell before the name Godric Gryffindor carried the same weight, the same immutable place in Avalon's memory.
His gaze lifted to the girl seated across from him, her fingers curled tightly around her mug as the ale lay untouched, its pale surface reflecting the light while her troubled amethyst eyes remained fixed upon it. Godric's expression softened, concern settling in his chest as he watched her. He had hoped that stepping away from the oppressive quiet of the castle might help her breathe a little easier, that the hum of ordinary life and the warmth of a tavern might steady her thoughts, or at least quiet the storm churning within her.
It was a great deal to bear. The revelation that she was the sole living heir to a legacy nearly a thousand years old, that her father had abandoned nobility for love, and that, much like him, she had only recently been a nameless nobody from a town far removed from this world. Yesterday, her life had been small and familiar. Today, it was heavy with history, expectation, and a future she had never asked for.
"Hey," he said gently. Jeanne lifted her head, amethyst eyes meeting his. "You okay?"
Her pupils drew in slightly as she nodded. "Yes. I'm fine." Her shoulders lifted in a small, uncertain shrug. "It's just…" She hesitated, then let out a quiet breath. "Do you remember the exact moment you realized you weren't… well, normal?"
Godric raised an eyebrow as her gaze dropped to the table, her fingers tightening around the mug.
"I'm sorry," she added quickly. "That came out wrong." She shook her head. "I just… I always thought I was ordinary. A normal girl. A normal family. A normal life." Her tone softened. "I thought I'd grow up, settle down, maybe start a family someday, just like my parents, just like everyone before me."
Godric was silent for a beat, then he chuckled, the sound low and easy, drawing her attention back to him. "Funny," he said, tilting his head. "That's exactly how I thought things would go for me too." He took a sip from his tankard before setting it down with a solid thud. "Join the guard. Work my way up. Become captain like my Uncle Gareth. Marry some girl, have a couple of kids."
He wiggled his fingers lightly between them. "Then, lo and behold, magic happens, Headmaster Blaise shows up out of nowhere going, 'You're a wizard, Godric,' and next thing I know, I'm on a train headed off to some far-flung school I'd never even heard of."
"I remember the day my magic awakened," he continued. "The day I chased a dragon out of Uncle Gareth's garden."
Jeanne raised an eyebrow, and he caught it, a faint chuckle slipping free. "Long story," he added, waving a hand lightly. "I told Helga, Rowena, and Salazar about it my first day in Avalon. I'll spare you for now." A faint smile tugged at Godric's mouth. "Anyways, I suppose normal has a funny way of vanishing when the world decides it has other plans for you."
Jeanne let out a soft laugh at his account, the sound light but genuine. "That sounds like a proper adventure," she said, before her expression gentled. "Mine was… less spectacular, and far more unsettling."
Godric's smile faded into quiet attention as he leaned back, listening.
"As I mentioned before, my childhood was largely unremarkable," Jeanne continued. "I was just a girl in a small town where I never quite fit. The other children thought me odd, kept their distance, though they were rarely cruel about it." Her fingers tightened slightly around her tankard. "Perhaps it helped that my parents, simple peasants as they were, were better off than most. By the standards of the time, we were considered wealthy."
She drew in a breath. "Then one year, a terrible storm tore through the region. It drowned the fields, swelled the rivers, and carried whole homes away in the current. Our house sat on higher ground, so we were spared the worst of it. I remember being in my room when it happened. Father had forbidden any of us from going outside until the storm had passed." Her gaze drifted. "That is, until I heard the shouting from the riverbank."
Godric smirked. "And Jeanne, being Jeanne, decided to do what she does best."
She rolled her eyes fondly at him, then nodded. "I disobeyed him. I ran into the storm." Her words lowered. "Down by the river, I saw a boy clinging to the roots of a fallen tree, barely holding on. His family was there, desperate, reaching for him, but the current was too strong."
Her eyes dimmed with memory. "I don't know how it happened. There was no spell, no incantation. It simply… did. One moment he was slipping, and the next he was rising into the air, guided by my hand. I brought him back to shore, safe." She swallowed. "And suddenly, everyone was staring at me."
She looked up at Godric. "I was terrified. I thought that after what they'd seen, they'd drag me to a pyre, call me a witch, and set me ablaze as such." A faint, incredulous smile touched her lips. "But when the storm passed and the sun rose the next morning… nothing. No accusations. No fear. It was as though none of them remembered a thing."
Jeanne tilted her head slightly. "I didn't understand it then, of course. Not until later, when I learned that Headmaster Blaise had come and wiped their memories clean. Obliviated them all." She exhaled softly. "And after that… well, the rest is history."
A small, tentative smile touched her lips, but it faltered almost as soon as it appeared, slipping away as her gaze fell back to the table.
"Still… to learn that I'm some long-lost heir to a noble house in Avalon," she said quietly. "Not just any house, but one of the twelve Imperial Families." A short, breathless laugh escaped her, edged with disbelief. "Me. A nobody, suddenly a noble."
She shook her head. "All my life, I'd already made peace with the idea of being just another face in the crowd. No titles. No renown. A life of quiet, unremarkable normalcy." Her fingers tightened around the tankard. "And now… that's no longer an option."
Her jaw set, emotion tightening her words. "And all this time, my father knew. Even after Headmaster Blaise came to us, he knew, and he still chose not to tell me."
Jeanne drew in a sharp breath, lifting her hand to her face, fingers pressing against her brow as if she could steady the storm there. "I don't know what to think anymore," she admitted. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to do."
She lowered her hand slowly. "Lady Genavieve is still waiting for an answer," she continued. "And no matter what I choose, I can't escape the feeling that my life, as I know it… will change forever."
Godric nodded slowly, understanding settling into his expression. "Times like these," he said, his gaze steady on hers, "my Uncle Gareth used to say something that stuck with me." He leaned back slightly. "Heed your head, trust your gut, and go with your heart." A small smile touched his lips. "If you can do that, you'll know you've made the right choice."
Jeanne blinked, caught off guard, then smiled in earnest. "That's… really good advice." She let out a quiet laugh. "Your uncle sounds like a wise man."
"So I've been told," Godric replied, returning her smile. "More times than I can count." He let the moment settle before continuing, his tone easing into something quieter. "Look, I know everything feels… overwhelming right now. Unfair, even. Like life has hoisted you onto some pedestal you never asked for and shoved a choice into your hands that you neither wanted nor sought."
He met her eyes. "But that isn't what's truly frightening you, is it?"
Jeanne's brow lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.
"You're afraid that no matter what you choose, the person you are now will slowly disappear," Godric said gently. "That she'll be replaced by whatever others expect you to be. That people around you. Us included, will start looking at you differently, treating you differently, as if you've already changed." He paused, letting the words breathe. "I understand that fear. Truly."
A faint smile touched his lips. "But I'm telling you now, that isn't how it works. Titles don't erase people. Bloodlines don't rewrite hearts." His gaze stayed steady on hers. "You are you. Jeanne D'Arc. Noble or not, heir or not. And no matter what path you choose, that won't ever change."
Amethyst eyes widened at Godric's words, a faint flush blooming across Jeanne's cheeks, but before she could find her voice, a violent sound tore through the moment. A thunderous crash slammed into the tavern from outside, heavy and unmistakable, followed by the splintering scream of wood and the tortured shriek of twisted metal. The impact struck like a blow to the chest, the shockwave rattling through bone and breath alike.
For a heartbeat, the tavern fell into stunned silence. Plates skidded and shattered across the floor, ale sloshed free of tankards and hit the boards in dull, sticky thuds, and every head turned as one toward the windows and the door.
Then the voices came. Loud. Raised. Sharp with confrontation.
Godric and Jeanne met each other's gaze, understanding passing between them without a word. They pushed back their chairs in unison, boots scraping against the floor, and rose to their feet. Without hesitation, they cut a straight line through the tavern toward the entrance, the tension outside already bleeding into the room behind them.
****
The heavy wooden door swung open with a harsh groan, its unoiled hinges shrieking in protest as Godric and Jeanne stepped out into the street, and the scene that greeted them was utter chaos. Market stalls lay in ruin, their frames snapped and strewn across the cobblestones, crates shattered and overturned as cabbages were crushed into soggy pulp, their leaves smeared green beneath the tracks of a carriage that had careened out of control and now lay on its side against a stone wall. Pumpkins had burst open where they'd fallen, fruit split wide and bleeding juice across the ground in bright, sticky streaks that mingled with splintered wood and twisted iron fittings torn free from the wreckage.
Merchants cried out in anguish, some standing frozen in disbelief, others dropped to their knees amid the debris, hands trembling as they stared at the devastation of what might have been an entire day's earnings, or worse, a week's worth of trade, reduced to ruin in moments. The air was thick with the smell of crushed produce and panic, voices rising and overlapping in sharp, frantic bursts.
At the center of it all, Godric's attention settled on two opposing groups, each numbering five. One was clearly younger, their faces set with tense defiance, no older than their early twenties, while the other group carried the harder lines of age, men in their forties with expressions sharpened by experience and temper. Both sides were dressed in the familiar garb of adventurers: tunics cinched with belts, satchels slung across their torsos, boots scuffed from the road, gloves tight around clenched fists, swords and daggers resting at their hips like unspoken threats.
Among the younger group stood two women whose presence stood out immediately, one clad in clerical robes marked with holy sigils, the other draped in a caster's garments beneath an oversized, weathered hat that shadowed her face. There was no mistaking it. Adventurers, all of them, squared off in the wreckage they'd left behind, with the city bearing the cost of their conflict.
"You bloody young'uns think you can just waltz into the guild and take what doesn't belong to you?" one of the older adventurers roared, his face flushed a furious crimson as a deep scowl carved itself into his features. He jabbed a shaking finger in their direction, teeth bared, his stance unsteady as his weight swayed from one foot to the other. "That contract was mine. Mine and my mates'. We saw it first!"
One of the younger men raised his hands, palms out in a measured attempt to defuse the situation, though the irritation in his voice bled through despite himself. "Look, mate," he said, his gaze sweeping across the older group. "You and your lot are clearly three sheets to the wind. Contracts are first come, first served. If you wanted it, you should've taken it the moment it was posted."
"I was going to!" the man barked back, his words slurring as he lurched forward. "Went to fetch me mates, didn't I? Came back and it was gone." His lip curled in open contempt. "Paid out nice too, I bet. You runts don't deserve a single copper of it. Hand it over now, and maybe I won't beat you half to death."
"Are you cracked in the head?" another of the younger adventurers snapped, his scowl deepening as anger sharpened his tone. "We took the job. We finished it. We earned it fair and square." He leaned forward. "So, take your broke arse somewhere else. This isn't a charity, and you sure as hell aren't a beggar."
One of the older men's hand slid to the hilt of his sword, the harsh scrape of steel against leather cutting through the air as he drew it free. The sound alone carried a warning. "Kids these days," he growled, rolling his shoulder as he leveled the blade. "No bloody respect. Think the moment they come of age, they can mouth off to their betters." His lip curled with disdain. "Back in my day, we knew respect. Knew fear, too. You pulled half the nonsense you lot are spouting now, and an adult would've cracked your skull without a second thought."
The sneer deepened, sharpening into something openly cruel.
"Looks like you're in need of a proper lesson."
The younger man answered with a snarl, his own sword flashing free in a swift, practiced motion as his stance lowered and his muscles coiled. "And you're in a hurry to meet your end, old man," he spat, fury burning hot in his eyes. "Bet you won't be so chatty when I cut off your head and shit down your neck."
It was all the signal anyone needed.
Steel sang as blades cleared scabbards in unison. Daggers slid into eager grips, wands snapped up, and the girls raised their staffs as ethereal light bloomed at their tips, casting flickering shadows across the ruined street. Bodies tensed, feet braced against the cobblestones, eyes narrowed and teeth bared, every posture drawn tight with violence held just barely in check. In that breathless moment, the air itself seemed to strain, heavy with the promise of blood and pain waiting for the first strike.
Godric and Jeanne looked on. The boy's gaze hardening as Jeanne's hand went to her mouth, eyes wide in horror. It was then, his gaze drifted sideways as he caught the muttered commentary of two older men nearby, watching the scene with weary disappointment etched into their faces.
"Here they go again," one of the men muttered, shaking his head as he watched the standoff unfold. "Bloody adventurers. Ever since all that business with the Tower, their kind's been crawling out of the woodwork, mucking up decent towns like this."
"Damned straight," the other replied, clearing his throat before spitting noisily into a pot by the wall, the dull clang of iron underscoring his disgust. "Burgess was the devil, no question about it, but at least the Tower kept the rats at bay. Now look at this." He gestured broadly at the street, his lip curling. "Hooligans and heathens, fighting over contracts like vultures picking a carcass clean. Half of them seem more interested in tearing into each other than doing any good for the folk they're meant to help."
"Aye," the first man grunted. "Someone ought to have a word with the guildmaster, straighten his lot out before someone else does it for him."
As the tension thickened, one of them glanced aside and caught sight of Godric and Jeanne. His gaze lingered on their attire, then settled on the emblem stitched into the heavy fabric of their cloaks. His eyes narrowed, a scowl tugging at his mouth before he scoffed quietly, as though their presence confirmed whatever bitterness already festered beneath the surface.
Godric noticed the look but chose not to meet it head-on. Instead, he turned slightly toward the two men, his tone even and measured as it carried just far enough to be heard. "You're saying this sort of thing happens often?"
They hesitated, momentarily caught off guard by being addressed so directly. After a beat, one of them answered, his gaze drifting back to the shouting adventurers, now trading sharper insults by the second.
"Only when there's a king's ransom involved," he said. "In small towns like this, you don't often see contracts worth fighting over. Most of it's E- and F-rank work. Herb gathering for the apothecary. Clearing out a monster den. Repairs, odd jobs, that sort of thing."
He shifted his weight, resting a hand on his hip. "Every now and then, the guild posts a C or a D. Escorting a merchant caravan, dealing with bandits or rogue slavers. The low ranks'll earn you a day's wages, but the higher ones?" He shrugged. "That's a warm bed and three solid meals for a week."
His eyes hardened slightly. "You can imagine why tempers flare, especially when outsiders swoop in and take those jobs before the locals can."
He glanced back at the older adventurers. "Not that I'm defending their behavior, mind you, but they've been in Carcassonne their whole lives. Born and bred here. Adventurers to the bone." He exhaled. "They lived through years when the Tower was busy dealing with grand threats and left the small-time dangers to sellswords like them." Another shrug followed. "Times changed. We got older. Work dried up. Most of us found other trades, but that fire?" He tapped his chest lightly. "Never really goes out."
The man beside him folded his arms and nodded in agreement.
Jeanne studied them, her expression softening. "It sounds like you were proper adventurers in your time."
"Aye," the older man said, a faint smile creasing his weathered face. "Once. Right up until I took an arrow to the knee."
Jeanne's eyes widened. "That sounds horrifying."
Godric glanced at her, deadpan. "It's an expression, Jeanne. Means they got married," he said. "I used to hear that plenty when I used to join Uncle Gareth and his friends back home."
"Oh," she said quickly, color blooming in her cheeks.
The older man laughed. The sound warm despite the tension nearby. "Don't fret, lass. It's just an adventurer's joke."
"Enough!"
The drunken roar snapped every gaze back to the group. The older man swayed as he shouted, spittle flying, his face mottled red with drink and fury. "Hand it over. Every last Plata and Aurum you've got, or we'll pry it from your corpse!"
The younger man let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, the sound cutting through the tension like broken glass. "What is this supposed to be now, old man?" he sneered, taking a step forward as his gaze dragged contemptuously over them. "Begging wasn't enough for you, so you've decided to play bandit instead?" His lip curled, the insult sharpening. "Figures. That's what happens to fossils like you. No dignity left, no shame to speak of, just bitter, angry carcasses who've grown far too comfortable blaming every misfortune on those younger than you." He scoffed openly. "Pathetic."
That was the breaking point.
The older man moved without another word, wand snapping into his grip as sapphire light flared at its tip. A raw, furious cry tore from his throat as he fired. The younger man twisted aside just in time, the spell shearing past him close enough to scorch the edge of his hair before slamming into something hidden beneath a brown tarp nearby.
Steel screamed.
Something heavy crashed to the cobblestones, the impact chipping stone and sending sparks skittering across the ground. Godric and Jeanne's eyes dropped to the object now lying half-exposed, its edges still glowing faintly red with heat.
A lock.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
"You bastard!" the younger man snarled, sword flashing into his hand. "You're a dead—!"
The sound that followed cut him off cold.
A deep, violent rattling erupted from beneath the tarp, the massive container shuddering as if something inside were hurling its full weight against the frame. The carriage it was mounted on groaned in protest, wheels creaking, metal bending as the strain mounted. Eyes widened across the street.
Godric's hand went instinctively to the hilt of the sword on his back, his jaw tightening as the thrashing grew more frantic, more desperate.
Then the tarp split.
With a thunderous burst of force, something long and jagged tore through the fabric, shredding it apart as a massive horn punched free, gouging deep furrows into the stone. The container ruptured, wood and iron splintering outward as the beast inside surged free.
It hauled itself into the open, enormous and terrifying.
At first glance it resembled a bull, but only in the loosest sense. It was easily twice the size of any cow Godric had ever seen, its hide thick and gray, stretched tight over slabs of dense muscle. Its shoulders rolled with power as it stamped the ground, breath hissing through flared nostrils. At the center of its head rose a colossal horn, its base glowing with a simmering, volatile light that pulsed like a living furnace.
Godric felt his stomach drop. "What in Charlemagne's Throne is that?" he muttered. Crimson eyes fixed on the creature.
Jeanne swallowed hard. "An… an Erumpent," she said. "Professor Kyar covered them in class."
Her gaze never left the beast as it snorted, pawed the ground, and lowered its glowing horn, the air around it seeming to tremble with barely contained violence, as though the street itself recoiled from the creature's presence.
"Bloody hell!"
The older men beside Godric didn't hesitate. Panic seized them all at once, and they turned and fled down the street, boots slapping against stone as fast as their legs would carry them. Godric watched them go for a heartbeat before his attention snapped back to the adventurers, all of whom now stood frozen in place, shock and fear etched starkly across their faces.
The erumpent's heavy head swung slowly, its gaze sweeping across the street from the armed men to the clustered onlookers. The massive horn at its brow pulsed brighter, a dangerous, simmering glow that made Godric's skin prickle. No one moved. No one breathed. Godric's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, his jaw set as his pulse thundered in his ears.
Then, the drunk adventurer screamed.
Shaking, swaying, he loosed a spell in blind terror. The flash struck the creature square in the face and dissipated uselessly, as though it had hit solid stone. The erumpent blinked once.
And then it roared.
The sound tore through the street, rattling windows in their frames and driving fear straight into the bones of everyone present. Without warning, the beast lowered its head and charged.
Screams erupted as the crowd broke apart, adventurers and townsfolk scattering in every direction while the massive creature thundered forward. Each footfall shattered stone, the cobblestones cracking and caving beneath its weight as it barreled down the street. Godric's gaze snapped to Jeanne just as the erumpent surged toward them, and he lunged without thinking, grabbing her and hauling her clear only moments before the beast tore past. They stumbled hard, barely keeping their footing, as the shockwave of its passing rattled through them.
Godric twisted back, crimson eyes locking onto the chaos behind them, and that was when he saw her.
A little girl had fallen, her small body sprawled on the stones as she cried out, terror wide in her eyes. Her mother fought to reach her, only to be dragged back by frantic hands as the erumpent thundered closer. The distance between them vanished in heartbeats.
Something ignited within Godric. Golden circuits flared across his skin, lightning dancing along his arms and torso as power surged to the surface, but he never got the chance to move.
A shadow streaked across his vision. A figure cloaked in black diving forward with impossible speed. The stranger scooped the girl up and rolled away just as the erumpent crashed past, its bulk missing them by inches. The figure slid to a stop, clutching the trembling child to his chest as the beast skidded and turned, snorting violently before lowering its head to charge again.
The cloaked man rose smoothly, wand already in hand, lifting it high as his voice cut through the chaos.
"Immobulus!"
A brilliant flash of blue erupted from the wand, and the world stopped.
Everything froze in place. The erumpent locked mid-stride, dust suspended in the air around its hooves. People were caught mid-scream, mid-step, even the drifting debris hung motionless as though time itself had been seized and held.
Godric's breath caught.
He knew this sensation. He had felt it before, trapped within his own body, helpless and aware as the world moved without him. Professor Serfence's magic, wielded during that meeting with Headmaster Blaise. Only this time, he wasn't the target. He was the witness.
The man in the cloak lowered his gaze to the little girl cradled in his arms.
"Are you hurt?" he asked gently, as though the chaos moments earlier had never occurred.
The girl could only stare at him, wide-eyed and shaken, before slowly shaking her head. Relief softened his posture, and beneath the shadow of his hood, a faint smile touched his lips. He carefully set her back on her feet, steadying her until she could stand on her own, before rising smoothly to his full height.
He turned toward the frozen erumpent, its massive form still locked mid-motion, a low, frustrated growl vibrating in its chest as it strained against the spell holding it in place. The man approached without hesitation, steps unhurried, and raised a gloved hand clad in black leather.
"Easy now… easy, girl," he murmured, his tone warm and coaxing. "I know you've been through a great deal, but we mean you no harm." He rested his palm against the creature's broad face, just beneath the glowing horn. "You're safe."
Godric watched, breath held, as the change came almost instantly. The violent tension in the erumpent's frame eased, its breathing slowing as the fierce glow at the base of its horn dimmed to a gentle sheen. The man's wand flicked once, a brief flash of light at its tip, and the world lurched back into motion.
Sound crashed in all at once.
The girl's mother cried out and rushed forward, collapsing to her knees as she wrapped her daughter in a desperate embrace. Around them, stunned murmurs rippled through the onlookers. The erumpent swayed, then turned its attention to a nearby stall left in ruins, produce scattered across the stones. With a heavy snort, it lumbered over and began contentedly munching on smashed cabbages and fallen greens, as docile as a farm animal.
The man watched it with quiet satisfaction before reaching up and pulling back his hood.
He was young, perhaps only a year or two older than Godric, with jet-black hair groomed to immaculate precision. He wore a tailored three-piece suit of charcoal gray, a gold chain fastened to the lower button of his black waistcoat, and a deep crimson tie neatly set against the white collar of his shirt. A golden brooch, inset with a ruby-red stone, pinned the knot in place. At his hip rested a polished hussar saber, its platinum hilt gleaming, the guard wrought in brambles and thorns, a matching red gem set at the base of the curved blade. Everything about him spoke of refinement, wealth, and unmistakable high birth.
His dark hazel eyes swept over the assembled adventurers, lingering on their drawn weapons and stunned faces. The warmth in his expression drained away, replaced by something sharp and cold.
"Now," he said evenly, his words carrying a dangerous edge, "pray tell, which one of you gutless, brainless peons is responsible for this?"
While the younger adventurers instinctively retreated a step, unease tightening their shoulders and draining the color from their faces, the older drunk did the opposite. He planted his feet, lips peeling back to bare his teeth as something ugly twisted across his expression. The name slipped from his mouth thick with contempt, dragged out like a curse fouling the air between them.
"Blackthorn."