A quiet calm settled back over the square, the tension draining away as though it had never been there. Leaves stirred and whispered along the cobbles as a gentle breeze threaded its way through the city, carrying with it the soft splash of the fountain and the hum of life returning to its usual rhythm. Laughter rang out as children darted across the freshly laid stones, their footsteps light, their voices bright, the sound of it all weaving together into something warm and almost peaceful.
Ryan leaned back against the wooden bench facing the fountain, one ankle hooked lazily over the other, the familiar waffle cup resting in his hand. Pink ice cream swirled inside it, marshmallow sprinkles clinging to the surface while ribbons of butterscotch melted and ran along the edges, already half gone. A green plastic spoon dangled from the corner of his mouth, his teeth tapping softly against it as his dark eyes drifted to the small figure seated beside him.
Nora cradled her own cone with careful, almost reverent hands, black talons curved just enough to hold without crushing. Vanilla ice cream crowned the waffle, drizzled in roasted caramel and dusted with tiny sugar moons, stars, and flecks of rainbow shimmer, unicorn shapes catching the light. She stared at it as if it might vanish the moment she touched it, golden eyes wide with wonder and disbelief. After a moment, she glanced sideways at Ryan, silently confirming that it was truly hers.
Ryan only tilted his head, an easy, encouraging look on his face.
She hesitated, then opened her mouth. Pearly fangs caught the light as her tongue slipped out, long and narrow, almost reptilian, and brushed the surface of the ice cream. Her body stiffened at once, a visible shiver running through her as her eyes widened, pupils blooming with shock at the cold, the sweetness, the unfamiliar rush of flavor. Then the tension melted away just as quickly, replaced by a bright, unguarded smile as she leaned in for another taste, then another, licking happily.
Ryan watched her for a moment, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He pulled the spoon free, settling it back into his own cup, and let out a slow breath as the square carried on around them.
"So," he said casually, "what's your story?"
Nora froze mid-lick, tongue hovering just above the ice cream as her golden gaze snapped to him, not in fear, but in startled confusion. For a heartbeat, she simply stared, as if she weren't quite sure she'd heard him right.
"I mean," Ryan went on easily, catching it and rolling with it, "I've seen my fair share of racism in my time. Hell, I come from a world where folks would lose their absolute minds over sharing a bus seat with someone two shades darker than they are." He tilted his head, one brow lifting. "And if I'm being honest, can't say it's all that different here. More races usually just mean more excuses to hate."
He paused, eyes settling on her again, more thoughtful now. "That said, the kind of grief they've been givin' you? That's on a whole other level. And for the life of me, I can't figure out why."
Nora swallowed and licked her lips, the carefree wonder fading as her expression grew more subdued. Her shoulders slumped a little, and the tip of her dragon tail flicked against the bench at her side.
"Well… the answer's obvious," she said quietly. "I'm an Adrakist. A dragonborn."
Ryan blinked once, then pointed at himself with the spoon. "Tourist, remember?" he said dryly. "You're gonna have to dumb that down for little ol' me."
"Oh, right," Nora said softly, a faint, almost apologetic smile touching her lips as she shifted on the bench, careful not to crush the cone in her hands. "In the distant past, dragons weren't as we know them today. They weren't mindless beasts to be hunted or feared, but a race steeped in age and memory, in wisdom…" She hesitated. "And in power."
Ryan stayed quiet, letting her speak.
"It's said that during the Age of Calamity, the Dark Lord Sarkon forged an alliance with the Dragon Lords of old," she continued. "In exchange for their strength, for their aid in crushing those who opposed him, he granted them dominion over vast territories across Avalon."
She drew a slow breath before going on. "When Sarkon was finally defeated, the Five Heroes set out to reclaim those lands, to purge every trace of his influence. But the Dragons… they were not willing to surrender realms they had ruled for generations."
"I'm guessin' that didn't end with a polite conversation," Ryan muttered, scooping up another bite of ice cream.
Nora's lips twitched despite herself, though her eyes remained heavy. "That was the beginning of the Dragon Inquisition," she said quietly. "Those who refused to yield were slaughtered. Those who resisted were hunted. Lord by Lord. Clan by clan. Stronghold by stronghold. Dragon-kind was driven to the very edge of extinction."
Her gaze drifted toward the fountain, the sunlight fracturing across the rippling water. "But legend says Neltharion, the last of the Dragon Lords, refused to let his kind vanish from the world. With his dying breath…" She swallowed. "He laid a curse upon Avalon itself."
Ryan raised an eyebrow.
A quiet stretched between them, heavy and unhurried, broken only by the soft murmur of the square. Nora's legs trembled faintly where they dangled from the bench, a nervous motion she didn't seem to notice.
"A winter passed," she said at last, "and the first of my kind was born into the world." Her golden eyes drifted down to the cone in her hands, to the softened edges where the ice cream had begun to sag. "No one knows how it happened, or why. It didn't matter if the parents were human, orc, therian… for every hundredth child born, one was dragon-kin." She swallowed. "It didn't take long for Avalon to put two and two together, but by then it was already too late." A faint, hollow smile touched her lips. "We were here."
She bit down on her lower lip, talons tightening unconsciously around the cone. "I don't think I need to tell you what followed. We were branded. Marked." Her eyes dimmed. "Cursed." She hesitated, then went on. "They tried, for centuries, to eradicate us. To undo Neltharion's curse. To scour it from the world." A soft, bitter breath escaped her. "They failed. Every time. So eventually… they chose the next best thing."
"Toleratin' you," Ryan said, exhaling sharply. "And I mean that in the nicest way possible."
Nora nodded slowly. "Dragonborns are forbidden from most cities. We aren't even acknowledged as people in many places." Her talons cracked faintly against the cone as melted ice cream ran over her fingers, the colors bleeding together into something dull and formless. "We're so unwanted that not even slavers bother with us. There's no market for the cursed."
Ryan's expression softened, something quiet and pained settling behind his eyes.
"I know this story by heart," Nora continued, her shoulders lifting in a small, weary shrug. "All of us do. Not just because it reminds us of what we are…" Her gaze lifted, meeting his. "But because Avalon has never let us forget it."
Ryan scoffed, his jaw tightening as his teeth ground together. "Same story, different shithole," he muttered. "Seems like the first thing anyone with a conscious thought learns after they come screamin' into this world is how to hate." He shook his head, frustration etched deep into his features. "Doesn't matter the reason. Doesn't matter how petty or stupid it is. Everybody's gotta stand on someone else's head, thinkin' it makes 'em better. Cleaner." A bitter breath left him. "Christ."
He glanced back at Nora. "I'd ask you about your parents, but after hearin' all that…" He trailed off, then exhaled. "Yeah. I don't imagine that ends with a bedtime story and a warm hearth."
A flicker of hurt crossed Nora's eyes as Ryan looked away. He caught it a second too late. "Wait—" he started, then shook his head. "I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."
Nora nodded slowly. "It's… not something I like talking about," she said softly. "Not a memory I care to visit."
"Fair enough," Ryan replied, his tone easing. He leaned back, gaze drifting across the square, the fountain, the people moving through their lives. After a moment, he looked back at her. "Just tell me one thing, kid," he said. "You got a warm place to sleep at night?"
There was a brief pause before Nora nodded again, slower this time. "There's a home for us, some distance past the eastern gate," she said quietly. "An old man named Simon looks after us the best he can. Gives us a bed and bread when there's enough to go around." Her tail flicked once, subdued. "There are twenty of us. All Dragonborn. Some barely a few winters old."
Ryan let out a low breath. "Jesus… that's rough."
"It gets cold," Nora continued. "We can barely afford firewood in the winter, let alone proper clothes when the frost settles in. Sometimes we go days without eating so the younger ones don't have to." She glanced down at her cone. "So, a few of us try to help however we can."
Ryan went still for a moment, then reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of Platas, the iridescent platinum catching the light as he turned them over with his thumb. Without ceremony, he cupped them and set them gently on Nora's lap.
Her eyes widened instantly. "No—no, please." She shook her head, panic flickering across her face. "You've already done more than enough. Even the first time we met, I—I can't take this."
"Hey," Ryan said softly, his expression easing. "Listen to me for a second." He held her gaze. "I know what it feels like to grow up unwanted. To feel like you're a mistake. A freak. Like there's a boot on your neck from someone bigger, uglier, meaner, who needs you there just so they can feel like they matter."
He exhaled, the humor draining from his tone. "I was one of the lucky ones. Somebody handed me a bat and taught me how to hit back. And yeah… I hit back hard. Didn't just knock the boot away, I took the leg with it." His jaw tightened. "And I didn't stop when I probably should've."
Nora listened, unmoving.
"But not everyone's built for that," Ryan went on, quieter now. "Not everyone's meant to fight their way out. Most folks just survive however they can, and that doesn't make them weak. It just means life got to them first." He shook his head. "The fight changes you, kid. If you're not careful, you wake up one day and don't recognize the person staring back."
He sighed, then gave a faint, crooked smile. "Point is, don't turn your nose up at help. We all need it. Someone once told me that nothing hits harder than life, and if you let it, it'll knock you flat and keep you there." A quiet chuckle escaped him. "Told the same thing to another girl once. She got back up, and man… she beat the absolute hell outta life afterward."
Ryan glanced at her again. "But that doesn't mean you have to do the same. You don't have to fight like I did." His words softened. "You're strong already, just in a different way."
A warm smile finally found its way onto Nora's face as she looked down at the coins resting in her lap.
"So," Ryan said gently, leaning in just a touch, "take the money. Make sure no one goes hungry tonight, or tomorrow." His gaze lifted, chin tipping toward the distant silhouette of the towering castle beyond the square. "And if you ever need anything. Anything at all. Go to Excalibur Castle and ask for Professor Ashford. If you can't get me, try Professor Serfence or Workner." He gave a faint, lopsided smile. "One's a grump, one's a walking ray of sunshine. Both of 'em mean well." He hesitated, then added dryly, "Well… at least one of 'em definitely does."
Nora laughed softly, nodding as she slid off the bench and gathered the coins into her palm. Her eyes flicked to the cone in her other hand, now drooping, the colors bleeding together as it melted. Her smile faltered.
"You know," Ryan said, catching it, "I can grab you another one."
She shook her head. "It's all right." Then she looked up at him, her smile returning, brighter this time. "Thank you. Truly. From the bottom of my heart." Her eyes shimmered. "Aside from Simon… no one's ever been this kind to me. I'll remember it. Always."
Ryan reached out on instinct, then stopped himself, recalling the way she'd flinched before. But Nora stepped forward instead, gently ducking her head beneath his hand. He rested his palm there, careful, and they shared a quiet smile.
She tucked the coins into the pocket of her tattered dress, lifted the basket of flowers from beside the bench, and straightened. "I should go," she said. "I need to visit the markets." A hopeful note crept into her voice. "Maybe we'll have stew tonight."
"Take care of yourself, kid," Ryan said softly. "I'll see you around."
Nora nodded, then turned and made her way out of the square. Her wings gave a light flutter as she walked, talons clicking against the stone. She took another careful lick of the ice cream, her smile widening, and for the first time, there was a spring in her step.
Ryan watched until she disappeared into the crowd. Then he leaned back against the bench, exhaled, and tipped his face toward the cloud-streaked summer sky, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I know what you're thinkin' up there," he muttered, shaking his head. His gaze dropped to the gold band on his finger. "Don't make it true."
****
The sinking sun bled across the far horizon, spilling bold ambers and deep reds over Caerleon's jagged skyline. Old and new stood shoulder to shoulder in uneasy coexistence. Buildings still bearing the scars of fire and siege beside fresh stonework laid atop foundations once reduced to rubble. As evening crept in, shadows stretched along the roads and down narrow alleys, broken only by the soft neon glow of streetlamps and signage humming to life. Crystal displays flickered awake, holograms unfolding in slow, seductive loops. Visions of turquoise seas and distant islands, of wealth, influence, and power promised through something as trivial as a new fragrance, a polished device, or a vehicle priced well beyond the reach of the working poor.
Near the city's core, scarcely a stone's throw from City Hall, rose a structure that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. Tall and unforgiving, its façade of faded concrete and crystal glass loomed over the street with an oppressive weight, as merciless in presence as those who worked within its walls. This was the headquarters of the Burra Authoritas, the Authority, the iron hand of the Slavers' Guild. Yet to the people of Caerleon, it was no symbol of order or dominance, only a blight on the cityscape. There was not a soul in the Crossroads City who looked upon it with respect. Only contempt lingered in their gazes, a quiet, collective loathing the Agents inside knew all too well.
The interior offered no reprieve from the building's cruelty. Vast ceilings stretched overhead, supported by thick pillars and walls dressed in the same lifeless gray as the exterior, while panes of glass set high above allowed the dying daylight to seep in, washing the space in a cold, waning glow. Amber lamps embedded into the concrete tried to compensate, their light pooling along the floor and walls, yet even they failed to banish the shadows, which clung stubbornly to corners and recesses as though the structure itself refused warmth.
The main lobby was paved in blackened marble veined with gold, night and metal caught mid-swirl within polished stone, flecked here and there with pinpricks of white. Polished loafers squeaked faintly against the surface as Agents moved through the space, their steps fewer now as the day drew toward its end. Faces of every race and creed passed beneath the lights, some purposeful, some weary, and among them were those being dragged along, hands wrenched behind their backs. Around their necks sat solid black collars, obsidian-dark and unmistakable, gleaming dully beneath the lamps as a declaration of what they had become.
Property.
For those bound within its walls, the building was not merely oppressive; it was final. Every echoing step, every towering pillar, every slab of stone pressed the same truth upon them: here, hope was an indulgence long since stripped away, and the idea of ever drawing breath again as a free soul felt as distant and impossible as the light fading beyond the glass overhead.
Several floors above, beyond the chromed doors of the elevator, the building gave way to a near-empty stretch of offices. Long rows of solid, polished oak desks filled the floor in a rigid, almost symmetrical grid, broken only by square cubicles whose dividers carried the same faded concrete gray as the walls themselves. A handful of potted plants were scattered throughout the space, ferns and narrow, jagged leaves offering the only hint of color against the oppressive chrome and stone palette.
The air felt stale, tinged with copper and the lingering bitterness of over-roasted coffee. Now and then, the sharp bloom of floral cleaner drifted through as a janitor passed, buffing one of the desks to a sterile shine. Everything was immaculate to the point of discomfort. Papers were aligned to razor precision, stationery arranged by length and hue, files uniform in thickness and ordered from tallest to shortest. Every desk mirrored the next in flawless repetition, a discipline so exact it bordered on obsession.
Opaque glass offices ringed the floor, reserved for higher-ranking officials whose silhouettes were now mostly absent as the day wound down. At the far end stood a set of thick oak doors, darker than the rest, marking the Captain's Office, or as it was known for now, the Commander's Room. Embossed into the wood was a name rendered in stark authority: HECTOR KHAN, the letters carved deep and filled in gold, his title bold beneath it.
The door swung open.
Lieutenant Gorras stepped out, or rather, the man who had been a lieutenant. The absence of stripes on his sleeves said enough. Conversations at nearby desks died instantly as heads turned. He moved with long, clipped strides, urgency tightening every step, his jaw set and eyes narrowed with a bitterness that spoke of fury and humiliation entwined. He offered no explanation, nor did he need to. Everyone on the floor knew the truth well enough.
The acting Captain had been faltering for months. Too many slaves slipping through the cracks and reaching the Safe Havens. Too many operations disrupted by Libertas insurgents. Too many bodies returned, and too few victories to balance the scale.
His boots struck harder as he rounded the corner toward the elevators and disappeared from view.
For a moment, no one moved. Then, almost as one, their gazes returned to the closed door of the Commander's Office, now sealed shut with a dull, final thud. It sounded less like a door closing and more like a verdict being passed, heavy and irrevocable, as though Gorras's fate had been locked behind it along with the name that now ruled the room.
****
Beyond the doors lay a vast office, spacious not merely by design, but by intent, a space that reflected the stature and authority of the one who occupied it. Tall glass windows stretched along one wall. Their vertical blinds drawn fully open to the city beyond.
From this height, City Hall dominated the view. The very heart from which Caerleon's mechanisms were governed, its once-pristine façade now encircled by steel steps and reinforced structures hastily erected in the aftermath of the Siege. Though the Tower had gone to great lengths to downplay the building's role, quietly burying the fact that it had nearly served as the epicenter of Burgess' plan to wipe the city from existence, the truth had not stayed hidden for long. A single, persistent reporter had broken the story, and with it came another wave of public outrage.
The revelation only deepened the city's scorn toward the organization, a resentment that clung to every symbol of authority, no matter how polished or imposing it tried to appear.
The office walls were crowded with framed portraits of Captains past, interspersed with certificates, medals, and commendations, a curated history of power and legacy. At the far end sat a broad, polished oaken desk resting on a gray carpet worn thin by years of measured footsteps.
Hector sat behind it, his back pressed firmly into the deep brown leather of his chair. The leather creaked softly as he leaned into his right fist, elbow braced against the armrest, his gloved hand pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes were shut, his expression taut, as though he were holding a headache at bay through sheer will alone.
Behind him, shelves lined the wall, stacked with books, neatly ordered files, and a handful of awards and personal trinkets left behind by the previous Captain. Hector hadn't bothered to replace them. His reassignment to the Crossroad City had come without warning, leaving him little time, or inclination, to make the office his own. Not that the transfer had surprised him. Given the state of Caerleon before and after the Siege, he should have seen this outcome coming long before the orders arrived.
He opened his eyes and exhaled sharply, his dark gaze drifting to the royal-blue scabbard resting against the side of his desk. His blade. A constant companion through some of the most turbulent chapters of his life, far more reliable than the rot festering just beyond his office doors. The incompetence he had uncovered since arriving wasn't merely staggering, it was offensive.
And unlike his predecessors, he had every intention of correcting it.
For now, however, Hector's attention lay elsewhere.
His dark eyes rested on the stacks of documents spread across his desk, manila folders pulled open and fanned apart with deliberate order. Pages of black ink stared back at him, stark and clinical, broken only by swathes of blood-red highlights that cut through the text with unmistakable emphasis. Profiles. Not criminals in the ordinary sense, but something far more troublesome.
The Marauders.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Stornoway. To the first tense encounter with Gryffindor, and then to the one that followed, face to face with Slytherin upon his arrival in the city. Ordinarily, he would have dismissed such meetings without a second thought. Defiance was common. Resistance was expected. Even the Calishan affair, troubling as it was, could have been rationalized, filed away as another complication in an already fractured system.
Yet that was not what unsettled him.
It was the look in their eyes.
He had seen it before, countless times, staring back at him from across blood-slicked battlefields and tribunal halls alike. The same gaze carried by renegades and revolutionaries, by men and women convinced they could defy the law and emerge victorious. He had cut them all down in the end, their convictions and aspirations dying with them, silenced beneath his blade.
But this was different.
A quiet unease coiled in his chest, tight and insistent. Something about the Marauders resisted easy categorization, refused to fit the familiar pattern. They did not look like people bracing themselves for martyrdom, nor fools drunk on misplaced righteousness. And for the first time in a long while, Hector found himself wondering if the story he expected to repeat might not end the same way.
Monochrome photographs were paperclipped to each file, five faces rendered in stark contrast and shadow, accompanied by dense blocks of written observation. Once, Hector would have found it distasteful, unbecoming, even, for the Authority to keep dossiers on people so young, regardless of how often the phrase persons of interest was used to justify it. They were not criminals. Not yet. At worst, they were variables. Potential thorns that might one day press too deeply into the Authority's side.
The irony was not lost on him. The Authority maintained files on nearly every member of Excalibur's faculty, including their most recent addition, a man whose reputation had crossed worlds ahead of him. But those were adults. They carried histories, some long, some bloody, all of them earned. These five had barely begun to live.
Hector's finger tapped a slow, measured rhythm against the paper as his gaze settled on one photograph in particular.
Godric Gryffindor.
He could not name what stirred in him, only the tightening grip in his chest and the instinctive sharpening of his senses, honed by years of war and judgment. He had seen that look before. Many times. The expression of a man born to reject the shape of the world as it was handed to him. A man who would carve his own path through law, crown, and creed alike, cutting down any who dared stand in his way. Gods included, if it came to that.
Men like that did not frighten Hector. Not Gryffindor, nor Slytherin, nor Ravenclaw, nor Hufflepuff. Power alone had never made his resolve falter or his hands unsteady. But what troubled him was not what they might become.
It was what they had already done.
Young as they were, they had toppled figures who once commanded fear from kings and criminals alike. Names that had inspired dread long before these children had drawn breath, reduced to memory and ash by their hands. And for the first time since opening the files, Hector found himself aligning with the unease of the Authority's upper echelons.
Their concern, it seemed, was not paranoia.
It was prudence.
"You might as well show yourself," Hector said at last, a slow, weighted sigh escaping him. "It may have been years since I left Nihon behind, but some instincts have a habit of lingering."
From the far corner of the office, the shadows stirred.
Blackened smoke unfurled in a quiet spiral, coiling like a living thing before thinning, revealing a figure stepping cleanly into the light. He was close to Hector in age, tall and spare in build, his complexion pale against the muted grays of the Authority uniform. Gold buttons traced the front of his coat, the insignia at his chest polished to a mirror sheen. A gray service cap sat neatly atop short, immaculately kept black hair.
At his hip hung a blade nearly identical to Hector's. Shorter, more utilitarian, while a second sword, longer and heavier, rested across his back, its presence unmistakable. His eyes were slanted, foxlike, and when he smiled, it was mild and precise, the sort of expression that invited unease rather than comfort.
The young man allowed his smile to deepen just a fraction as he spoke. "You are far too modest, Commander," he said. "To sense a presence so precisely, especially one concealed beneath a Vanishing Charm, is no small feat." His eyes gleamed with quiet respect. "I would even say… it took my master decades to reach such refinement."
Hector lifted his gaze to him, his expression unmoved. "Lieutenant Serizawa," he said calmly. "I trust your journey to Caerleon was uneventful."
Serizawa inclined his head in a measured bow, hands resting neatly at his sides. "Of course," he replied. "Though I understand you were not afforded the same fortune." A faint pause followed. "Still, one less Libertas cell for us to concern ourselves with."
As he straightened, his gaze drifted briefly toward the office door. A knowing smile touched his lips.
"I had the… pleasure of crossing paths with Lieu—" He stopped himself, letting out a soft chuckle as he shook his head. "Or perhaps I should say former Lieutenant Brunestud, on my way up." The smile sharpened just a fraction. "If looks alone were lethal, I fear I would not be standing before you now."
Hector did not return the smile. "Spare the man your sympathy. His fate was sealed months ago. In truth, he should consider himself fortunate that demotion was the extent of his sanction, rather than outright discharge." He paused, fingers pressing lightly to his temple. "Given the breadth of his failures, the latter would have been anything but honorable."
"Harsh," Serizawa murmured, clasping his hands behind his back as he leaned slightly, though his eyes never left Hector. "One would expect a man who has lived twice as long as we have to display greater competence in his craft." A quiet laugh escaped him. "It seems even elves are no less flawed than the rest of us, regardless of how fervently they insist on standing above it all."
"Hypocrisy and delusion are hardly confined by race," Hector replied, rubbing at his temple as he settled his weight against the edge of the desk. "But with the primary cause of these failures now addressed, our attention must shift to more pressing matters." His gaze hardened. "Restoring order to this city, at least within our jurisdiction, and, if fortune allows, bringing this ongoing insurgency to its end."
"A task you've grown exceptionally efficient at," Serizawa added, a thin grin forming. "Given your… rather particular set of skills."
Hector answered him with nothing more than a sideways glance.
Serizawa's attention drifted to the neatly arranged files on the desk. His brows lifted, interest sparking.
"Oh-ho? And what do we have here," he murmured, tilting his head. "Godric Gryffindor." His eyes widened slightly as he read. "So, this is the boy they're calling the Hero of Caerleon. How very interesting." He looked up again, hazel irises sharp. "Pray tell, Commander, why does the Authority feel the need to keep a file on a schoolboy?"
"For the same reason it keeps a file on anyone deemed a potential variable," Hector replied smoothly, closing the folder and resting his palm atop it. "Observation. Nothing more, at least for the moment."
Serizawa straightened, folding his arms across his chest.
"The Authority has never been a shining example of restraint," he said lightly. "If it could, it would keep a dossier on a Niffler with a talent for theft." He waved a hand. "They spend so much time glancing over their shoulders, one might assume they're perpetually on the brink of paranoia."
"Paranoia and caution are two very different disciplines, Serizawa," Hector countered, lifting his gaze. "The last time the Authority underestimated a threat, we came perilously close to the largest slave uprising in centuries." His words hardened. "That lesson was learned in hardship and blood." He steepled his fingers. "As was the lesson drawn from Burgess' fall." A subtle tilt of his head indicated the closed file. "And the boy responsible for it."
Serizawa let out a quiet chuckle.
"I've heard Gryffindor caused no small amount of unrest within the Union after his little duel with Volg Dryfus." His grin sharpened. "Shame, dishonor, outrage. Words they would have dearly loved to hurl at Laxus' face, were it not for the distinct fear that he'd relieve them of their teeth the moment those words left their mouths."
A brief silence settled between them.
"That said," Serizawa continued, more thoughtful now, "I do understand their concern. The tale of the Lion and the Wolf has grown into quite the legend among the enslaved." He tapped a finger against his chin. "And as history has taught us time and again, the most dangerous weapon is not blade nor wand…" His eyes lifted. "But hope."
A sharp breath escaped Hector as the lines etched into his face seemed to deepen, his composure hardening into something colder. He lifted his gaze and held Serizawa's without wavering.
"And that," he said, "is precisely where men such as you and I enter the equation. Hope may be powerful, but it is fleeting, and above all, fickle." His tone lowered slightly. "The enslaved know this the moment the collar snaps shut, the instant cold steel kisses their skin. Hope is the first thing they abandon. Soon after follow their dreams, and then any notion of a future at all."
He placed both hands flat against the surface of the desk as he straightened, the leather of his gloves whispering softly.
"What remains is acceptance," Hector continued, "and the quiet understanding that the Gods have seen fit to turn away from them. That no one is listening. That this existence is now their fate, their nature, their normal."
His jaw set, unmoving. "And it is no more than they deserve."
For the briefest moment, Serizawa's expression faltered, surprise flickering across his features before his familiar grin returned, thin and knowing.
"As unforgiving as a Sokovian winter," he remarked lightly. "They call you King, Commander." He paused, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Though I suspect Tyrant would be the more accurate title."
He reached up, removed his cap, and brushed his hair back before settling it neatly into place once more.
"In any case, I believe I've taken enough of your time. If you'll permit me, I'd like to retire to my quarters. Perhaps we can discuss your plans for the city first thing tomorrow."
Hector regarded him with an unreadable stare.
"I am not so cruel as to deny a man his well-earned rest," he replied coolly. "Go." A slight tilt of his head followed. "I will require you at your best."
Serizawa inclined his head in a courteous bow, then turned on his heel and made for the door. His hand closed around the golden handle, but he paused, lifting a single finger as though a thought had only just occurred to him.
"Oh, before I forget," he said lightly, glancing back over his shoulder at Hector. "I regret to inform you that the Brass has also dispatched a… rather persistent pain in the backside to Caerleon." His grin widened. "One we've both grown intimately familiar with."
Hector arched a brow. "You don't mean—"
Serizawa nodded, lifting both hands in a small, helpless shrug as his shoulders bobbed. Hector pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing as a weary breath escaped him.
"Of course," Hector murmured. "I was a fool to think they would make this simple." He lowered his hand and opened his eyes again. "Still, the man has his uses. And should he put so much as a toe out of line, I will personally see to its removal."
Serizawa let out a soft, amused chuckle. "As they say back in Camelot, you're the boss." He inclined his head in a final, respectful nod. "Good day, Commander." As he turned toward the door, he lifted a hand in parting. "Do send my regards to Vistra… and the children."
The door opened, then closed behind him, the heavy oak settling with a muted click that left Hector alone once more.
Silence reclaimed the office.
Hector's gaze drifted back to the file resting on his desk. He reached for it, opened it, and once again found himself staring at the photograph clipped inside. Godric's face looked back at him, frozen in monochrome.
"Godric Gryffindor…"
His eyes slid to the blade resting nearby, its presence steady, familiar.
"I pray the fates are kind enough to temper your fire," he said quietly. Then his expression hardened, the faintest edge of anticipation cutting through his composure. "And if they are not…"
His gaze darkened.
"I shall very much look forward to the day of reckoning."
Hector exhaled sharply, the sound measured, controlled. His gaze lifted from the file, settling somewhere far beyond the glass and steel of his office.
"You and your friends have made your stance perfectly clear," he continued, resolve settling like cold iron.
"And now," he said softly, "so have I."