Bastion leaned against the tall pane of glass, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes tracing the rooftops and spires of Caerleon far below. The ward was quiet, save for the distant hum of crystal lights and the occasional footsteps of the medical staff. Excalibur Academy loomed around him—grand, sprawling, untouched by time or hardship. It was his first time here, and though he carried no personal history within its stone halls, a sense of estranged familiarity gnawed at the edges of his mind.
It reminded him of Wallace.
The castles were the same. The crests, the house banners, the polished hallways lined with portraits of long-dead heroes. All of it dressed in grandeur, cloaked in the illusion of honor and tradition. But behind Wallace's proud veneer lay cruelty. Survival. A constant struggle to remain standing while those around you were devoured by the very system meant to raise them up.
He remembered his mother's pleading voice when he turned down Excalibur. "You'll be safe there. You'll be seen for more than just your name." But Bastion had wanted to walk in the footsteps of the Overdeath. To earn the Reinhardt name not through comfort, but by blood and battle. His grandfather's legacy, after all, was carved in war.
It was a mistake.
Bastion had lost count of how many friends he'd buried. At Wallace, strength was law, and compassion was a liability. True friendship was a rarity—fragile and fleeting. He had learned early not to get attached.
He scoffed under his breath. The students here would never know that kind of darkness.
His gaze shifted to Langston across the room. The Captain was fastening the buttons on his uniform shirt, the white fabric taut against his bandaged ribs. Magic had mended the worst of his injuries, but some fractures were left to heal on their own. Langston had refused pain potions, brushing off every suggestion with a quiet, grim resolve. Said he deserved to feel it. That it was penance.
Bastion had argued, of course. But deep down, he understood. All too well.
Langston rolled his shoulders, wincing only slightly. "Well, I don't know about you, kid," he muttered, slipping on his coat with a grunt. "But I think I could use that drink now."
Bastion smirked, pushing off the windowsill. "Only took you two damned days."
Langston stepped out into the hall, boots echoing against the polished floors. "If you'd told me the only decent hospital in this entire damned city was part of a school, I'd have laughed you out the door." He glanced around as they walked. "But I'll admit, I'm impressed. Excalibur's got something real going on here."
The corridor buzzed with activity. Patients sat along the waiting benches, some nursing minor injuries, others whispering anxiously. Nurses strode past with brisk purpose, clipboards in hand, their robes pristine. Alabaster walls reflected the soft glow of overhead crystals, and the floor beneath them gleamed like polished jade. It felt more like a government facility than a school.
"Tell me about it," Bastion said, his eyes flicking between doors and passing faces. His greatsword on his back turned more than a few heads. "Wished I had anything close to this back at Wallace. Hell, maybe I'd still have a few more friends around."
He was about to say more when a shoulder clipped his own.
"Oh—whoa, sorry," Bastion said reflexively, glancing down.
A student stood in front of him—no more than fifteen with jet-black hair, the deep crimson crest of Ignis sewn neatly on his robes. The boy looked up briefly, eyes the same crimson hue as the insignia on his chest.
"Excuse me," he said softly, before moving on without hesitation.
Bastion turned to watch him walk away, brow furrowed. He blinked. Crimson eyes…
And then he saw it. The sword on the boy's back. It wasn't large, but it was distinct—ornate and ancient in design.
Langston followed his line of sight, noticing Bastion had gone still. "Something wrong?"
"I... I think that was him."
Langston raised a brow. "Him who?"
Bastion's jaw tightened. "Godric Gryffindor."
"Wait—the Lion of Ignis?" Langston's eyes went wide, almost disbelieving. "That Godric Gryffindor?"
Bastion turned back to him, arms folded, a mischievous grin creeping across his face. "Well, would you look at that," he said. "Seems the Hero of Vol'dunin's got himself a hobby after all."
Langston scoffed, though his expression stayed amused. "Please. Just because I didn't graduate from Excalibur doesn't mean I live under a rock. I've heard the name. Undefeated since his debut, with a sword arm meaner than a warg in mating season."
He smirked. "Besides, I've been following Congregation events since before you were old enough to grow fuzz on your chin. Blame your grandfather. He got half the damned Tower into it."
Bastion chuckled. "Sounds like it was more of a secret club than a spectator sport. You ever bet on any of the matches?"
"Once or twice," Langston admitted, a knowing glint in his eye. "Missed the boat on the Bellum Inter Duos, though. I was neck-deep in a desert op at the time. Still kick myself for it—heard it was one hell of a duel."
"Oh, it was," Bastion said, his gaze following the direction Godric had gone, now long out of sight. "Least that's the word going around." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, edged with something between amusement and admiration.
As they neared the exit, Bastion slowed his pace, his eyes catching on a scene that soured the air more than the antiseptic stench of the ward. Two men stood across the hallway.
One wore the grey-and-black of an AEGIS Guardian, marked by the stripes on his sleeve that denoted the rank of Captain. His blonde hair was gelled upward, styled with the kind of arrogance that didn't need to speak. His hazel eyes were locked on a young nurse—fox therianthrope by the look of her—her back gently pressed to the wall. She offered a tight, uncomfortable smile, the kind given when fear begged to be polite. Her ears had flattened, and her tail twitched low and nervous behind her.
Beside him stood a taller man in a navy-blue suit, pressed and pristine. Black hair combed neatly. Thick glasses sat on his face like a mask, and an Adjudicator's badge gleamed from the lapel of his jacket. His hands were folded neatly, but his silence felt complicit.
Bastion didn't know them. Not by face, anyway.
But then Langston's expression shifted—his jaw tightened, his nose wrinkled, and he let out a quiet, derisive scoff through his teeth.
That told Bastion all he needed to know.
"Friends of yours?" he asked dryly.
Langston didn't look at him. "Not even close."
****
The man's smile twisted, snake-slick and laced with arrogance. "So, what time you getting off, doll?" he drawled, his voice a shade too low, a touch too oily. "There's this cozy little spot downtown. Dinner, a few drinks… then maybe back to your place. I've always had a thing for fluffy tails—"
"Sir, please," the nurse said, shrinking further against the wall. "I have to get to my patient."
"Callahan!" Langston's cry snapped across the hall like a whip. "Tuck your dick back in and get your slimy ass away from her."
The captain turned, amusement flickering behind his hazel eyes as he stepped off the wall with slow, exaggerated ease. The nurse gave Langston a grateful nod before slipping away, her tail disappearing around the corner like smoke.
Bastion's arms folded tighter. Every second of this encounter chipped further away at what little patience he had left.
"Well, well," Callahan grinned. "If it ain't the Hero himself. Good to see you still breathing, old man. Heard you took a little nap in the street. Thought maybe your time finally came."
"You wish." Langston's jaw twitched. "Unlike you, I didn't buy my commission with daddy's coin and a handshake. I earned mine the hard way. You wouldn't last ten minutes in Vol'dunin."
Callahan's smile withered, and he stepped forward, fists clenched—but the man beside him raised a hand, blocking him with practiced ease.
"Langston," the man said calmly.
"Captain Langston," Langston corrected, eyes flashing. "Don't make me say it again, Manfred."
Manfred sighed, adjusting the ascot at his throat, smoothing down his suit. "Very well… Captain. We're here on behalf of Internal Affairs. We'd like a few words, if you don't mind."
Langston's smirk returned, colder this time. "Oh, I mind plenty. But I'll humor you."
Manfred continued, "We're investigating what happened that night. The casualties. The presence of Nemesis, and a certain orc named Orgrim Darqtide. Surely you understand the weight—"
Langston held up a finger, cutting him off. "Spare me the rehearsed script. I know what happened. I was there. Orgrim came for me. People died. I lived. That's it."
He took a step closer. "Now answer me this: why is an Adjudicator playing bloodhound for Internal Affairs? You're not a detective, Manfred. Don't you have courtrooms to haunt?"
Manfred's eye twitched. Callahan sneered behind him.
Langston didn't budge.
"Didn't think so," he muttered, stepping past them with Bastion falling in behind. "Tell your boss if he's got questions, he knows where to find me."
Langston paused just long enough to cast one last look over his shoulder. "And the next time you feel like cornering nurses in my presence—don't. You've got enough skeletons in your closet to fill a graveyard, and there's only so much silver your daddy can throw at the brass before you do something even he can't buy your way out of."
Callahan's smug grin faltered.
"Not so fast," Manfred cut in, turning around. "It's come to my attention that you and Orgrim Darqtide share a rather… complicated history. Dating back to Vol'dunin."
Langston turned fully now, fury tightening every muscle in his face. "And just what the hell are you implying?"
Callahan chuckled, stepping in again. "Oh, don't get your knickers twisted. We're just saying—it's awfully convenient, isn't it? A little showmanship here, some dramatic sparring there. Smoke and mirrors, and everyone's too stunned to ask the right questions."
He gave a half-hearted shrug. "Sides, wouldn't be the first time you cozied up to someone mean and dirty for the sake of peace. Maybe this whole thing was just another act."
Langston's hands curled into fists. "Say one more word, you punk, and I'll feed you your teeth through a straw."
"Watch yourself, Captain," Manfred said sharply, pushing up his glasses. "Despite Callahan's… delivery, the concern stands. The brass believes there's reason to investigate whether you and Darqtide are aligned. If not in ideology, then perhaps… in history."
Manfred continued. "If you have any proof—any—that you and Darqtide aren't in league with one another, now would be the time to offer it. It might help your case… assuming there is one left to make."
Langston took a slow, shuddering breath. "You want proof?" He jabbed a finger at Manfred's chest. "Go down to the morgue. Open drawer seventeen. Her name was Iris. You'll find what's left of her in there. She died because of him, right in front of me."
His eyes flared, fury boiling over. "And the absolute balls on you—to stand there and accuse me, after everything—" He shook with rage. "I mean to beat your ass to death and drink your blood from a boot, you spineless, sniveling, bureaucratic little parasite!"
"You weren't there. You didn't see what he did. You didn't hold what was left of her. So don't you dare stand there behind your badge and your smug little smirk and pretend like you understand a damn—!"
Bastion stepped in, placing a firm hand on Langston's shoulder. The captain stiffened; his breath ragged—then exhaled. Slowly. Controlled.
Langston turned away. "I have nothing more to say to you. Both of you. Now, get the hell out of my sight."
He stormed off, Bastion following close behind.
Before turning the corner, Bastion looked back—his mismatched eyes burning a hole through both men. Not a word left his lips, but the message was clear.
The next time they crossed paths, there'd be no talking.
****
The soft clink of ceramic against polished wood barely registered beneath the low murmur of conversation and the rhythmic creak of wooden beams. The tavern, tucked within a quieter corner of Caerleon, was a far cry from the raucous halls most would associate with the word. Its interior bore the unmistakable mark of the Far East—walls lined with scrolls inscribed in flowing calligraphy, brushstroke banners suspended from the ceiling, and faint incense curling through the air, blending with the scent of grilled meats and spices unfamiliar to most local palates.
It was a place Bastion had come to know well. His second home away from the Crown City.
He and Langston sat at a square table against the wall. Rem and her sisters flitted between tables, trays balanced in hand, their movements graceful, practiced. All cat therianthropes, animal and human features intwined—ears perked and tails trailing—they shared the same charm, though with subtle differences.
Rem's sleek black fur on her ears and tail set her apart, while her sisters boasted a range of coats: tabby, calico, and snow white. Bastion couldn't help but notice the way they flushed when they passed by, casting bashful glances his way. He smirked to himself, amused—and maybe a little flattered.
Before him sat two neat slices of salmon draped over small, compact folds of rice. Sushi, Rem had called it. At first, the thought of eating raw fish turned his stomach, but now? Now he popped one into his mouth with ease.
Across from him, Langston raised an eyebrow. "Back in the day, I wouldn't be caught dead eating something that hadn't been kissed by fire," he said. "Dysentery took more men off the battlefield than any sword ever could."
Bastion chuckled as he chewed. "Doesn't surprise me. But once you try it, you get used to it."
Langston lifted a tiny ceramic cup and gave it an appraising look before taking a sip. "This… what's it called again?"
"Sake. Rice wine," Bastion replied. "Rem's old man swears it's some ancient Miyagi family recipe. He guards it like it's state treasure."
Langston chuckled, savoring the warmth that spread through his chest. "Well, tell him this soldier approves. Hell, I might make this place a regular stop." He leaned back in his seat with a sigh, letting the comfort settle into his bones. "Gods know I could use a few more places like this."
Bastion chuckled, but it faded quickly, his smile falling into something far more serious. He leaned forward, locking eyes with Langston across the table.
"Back at the hospital," he said quietly. "Those two—who were they?"
Langston's expression shifted. His jaw tensed, a flicker of something old and bitter crossing his face.
"Scum," he said. "The kind that makes your skin crawl. Seen plenty of rot in the Tower—but they stand out."
Bastion didn't press, just waited.
"Callahan's the worst of the pair," Langston continued, pouring another cup of sake. "Spoiled little bastard, born with a silver dagger in his teeth. Daddy's a big-shot politician with old money, and even older connections. Practically bought the boy his badge, and fast-tracked him to captain in just two years. He didn't earn a damned thing."
Bastion scoffed. "A nepo baby. That's hardly new."
Langston nodded. "True. I could stomach it, maybe, if he weren't such a snake. But Callahan's not just entitled—he's dangerous. Got a thing for therians. Real ugly obsession. Plenty of reports from the girls at the Tower. Harassment, worse. But every time—poof. Gone. Buried under coin and contracts."
Bastion's hands clenched. His shoulders stiffened. "They just let that slide?"
Langston gave him a look. "You know how it is. In Avalon, justice's got a price tag. And the ones with enough Platas can write their own laws."
Bastion exhaled sharply, the old fire in him starting to stir.
Langston took a measured sip before continuing. "And that ain't the worst. Word is, before his promotion, Callahan got tangled up in something dark. A therian girl turned up dead. No charges. No inquiry. Just… gone. Scrubbed clean."
Bastion didn't speak for a long moment. When he did, his voice was calm—but cold.
"And the other one? Manfred?"
Langston's lip curled in a sneer. "Adjudicator. Arrogant. Calculated. The kind who hides behind ink and statutes—never lifts a blade, never dirties his robes. But make no mistake, he's just as dangerous. He writes the orders, drafts the verdicts, and lets others do the cutting."
He swirled the sake in his glass. "Started as a Prosecutor. Made a name for himself in the courts before climbing his way into the Adjudicator's chair. Hit it big in a particular case ten years ago back in the Crown City. It was all over the news."
He took a slow sip. "Real charmer. Knows how to twist words so tight, even the innocent start to wonder if they're guilty."
Bastion furrowed his brow. "You're not talking about the Sinclair case, are you?"
Langston nodded. "That's the one. Elf kid, barely sixteen. Accused of murder. Someone high. Someone big. Someone loved. Whole thing stunk of set-up from the beginning—evidence tampered; testimonies coached. But Manfred? Turned it into a spectacle. Painted that boy as a monster in the span of two hours and walked away with a conviction and a promotion."
Bastion shook his head. "I remember that. Thought the case felt rigged."
"It was," Langston said flatly. "But that didn't matter. The public needed a villain, and Manfred gave them one. Played the crowd, played the court, and earned himself a fast track straight to the top."
He set the empty cup down, the ceramic tapping lightly against the wood. "Now? He's one of Lamar's favorites. Always a step behind the Director's shadow, always in the right place to make the wrong things happen."
The table fell silent. Only the soft sounds of the tavern filled the space between them.
Bastion's voice was quiet, but iron-willed. "People like that don't get to walk away forever."
Langston raised his glass. "No. They don't."
****
The steel edge of the axe bit clean through the log, splitting it in two with a satisfying crack. Gunnar wiped the sweat from his brow with a thick forearm, setting the axe aside beside the stump. He gathered the split wood in his arms, adding it to the growing pile stacked against the fence. He'd lost count of how many logs he'd cleaved that day. With a grunt, he leaned back, pressing his hands to the small of his back until his spine popped. A long breath escaped him—half relief, half habit.
His gaze turned toward the modest cottage nestled in the clearing beyond. Timber walls, smoke curling from the stone chimney, a vegetable patch on one side, and a crooked fence that lined the border of the land. The soft breeze carried the earthy scent of pine and wildflowers. The sun was warm on his face, but not overbearing. Autumn was flirting with the horizon.
This life—quiet, honest—was the world Gunnar had carved out for himself.
He'd left the Iron Hills behind long ago. Left the clang of steel and the stink of blood. Left the cheers of war-drunk brothers and the ghosts that came after. Here, in the solitude of the woods, he'd built something better. He'd built it for Lydia, for the family they dreamed of. But time, ever the cruel mistress, had stolen that dream and left him with silence.
Until Abigail.
Gunnar staggered forward, nearly losing his footing as something barreled into him from behind.
"Addith!" came the delighted squeal.
He let out a hearty laugh as arms wrapped tight around his neck. He turned and looked up into a familiar, smiling face.
"There ye are, you little scamp!" he grinned, scooping her up in one arm like she weighed nothing. "Sneakin' up on yer elders now, are ye?"
Twelve years old, wild black hair, cat-like ears tipped with white tufts. Her tail swayed behind her, and her sharp emerald eyes gleamed with excitement. A single fang peeked from her wide smile as she waved something clutched in her hand—a cream envelope, the wax seal broken.
"I got in!" she beamed. "I got into Excalibur Academy!"
Gunnar blinked, then snatched the letter from her hand as gently as he could. His eyes scanned the parchment, wide and disbelieving. His heart thumped once, hard.
"By the forge," he whispered, then louder, a grin spreading across his weathered face. "Abigail… I'm so damn proud of ye."
She laughed, burying her face in his beard as he hugged her close. For that moment—out in the forest, between chopped wood and sunlight—the weight of old sorrows lifted just a little. She was his joy. His purpose. And now, she was beginning her own story.
"To think," Gunnar said, smiling as he cupped her face with one calloused hand, "you were just a wee thing when I found you, barely a scrap of fur and bone. And now look at you—taller than my chest, sharper than a tack, and off to Excalibur Academy no less."
He gave a low chuckle. "Brings a tear to me eye, it does." He hesitated, then added, "Though I can't say I'm thrilled about you bein' away from home."
Abigail giggled, her emerald eyes twinkling. "Addith, Caerleon's not that far. And I'll be home for the holidays, I swear. Besides…" She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "You know I'll always be your little girl."
Gunnar huffed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he wiped his hands on his tunic. "Aye, that you are. Well, what're we standin' around for? Let's get into town and fetch your supplies, eh?"
Abigail hesitated, her expression softening. "Wait—don't you have deliveries to make today?" she asked. "Some of your clients have been waiting on that firewood for days now."
"Bah," Gunnar waved it off. "They'll live. It's not every day your daughter gets into the most prestigious bloody academy in Avalon."
"No, Addith, it's important," Abigail said firmly. "They rely on you. I won't be the reason anyone goes cold tonight. And I'm old enough now—I can do a bit of shopping on my own."
Gunnar looked her over, reluctant. "Kitten, I don't know…"
"Don't you trust me?" she asked, tilting her head, her eyes soft and earnest.
He sighed, reaching for the pouch at his belt. "Of course I do, but that doesn't stop me worryin'." He pressed the pouch into her hand, the weight of the coins inside jangling lightly. "Alright—but straight there and back. No dawdling, and not a moment after sundown, you hear me?"
"I hear you," Abigail said brightly, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug. "I'll be back before you know it."
She kissed him once more on the cheek, then turned and hurried down the dirt path, the tall grass brushing at her legs as she ran toward the distant road.
Gunnar stood there for a long moment, one hand still on his cheek.
"Love you too, kitten," he murmured, watching until she vanished from sight.
A decision he would come to regret for the rest of his life.
Thunder cracked across the sky, followed by a blinding flash of lightning that lit up the rain-slicked streets. Water struck the cobblestones in a relentless downpour. A crowd had gathered—silent, grim, unmoving. In their midst, a body lay beneath a white sheet, soaked through and stained red.
Gunnar pushed his way forward. Each step heavier than the last. The bundle of firewood in his arms slipped from his grasp, scattering across the street with a dull clatter. His expression twisted—part disbelief, part dread. His breath caught in his throat.
AEGIS guards reached for him, but he threw them off like rag dolls. His roars of anguish tore through the rain, each cry cutting deeper than the last. He collapsed to his knees beside the still form, trembling hands reaching out, grasping the edge of the blood-streaked cloth.
He pulled it back.
And the world ended.
Her face—soft, pale, lifeless. Her eyes closed as if in sleep. His Abigail.
A sob broke loose, violent and raw. His body shook as grief and rage consumed him. The street trembled beneath his cries. It took more than ten men to restrain him, but nothing—not their strength, not their words—could hold back the fury that surged inside him.
He knew who was responsible. The bastard's face was etched into his memory like a scar that would never fade. But despite everything—despite the evidence, the witnesses, the cries for justice—it was ruled an accident. No charges. No trial. Not even the courtesy of a formal hearing. Just silence. Swept away with a shrug and a stamp of bureaucracy. It was a mockery. A farce. And it shattered what little restraint he had left.
So, Gunnar dug up what he had buried the day he buried his axe—his promise to Lydia.
And he broke it.
He stormed the company grounds, his fury unbound. Blood spilled like rainwater. Screams echoed through the night. Dozens fell before his blade, dozens more cleaved and broken; bodies strewn like ash in the wind.
But even then—it wasn't enough.
The one responsible had vanished, returned to the Crown City behind gilded walls and Platas-fed protections. And as Gunnar lay dying in the ruins of his vengeance, slumped among the corpses he'd felled, the warmth draining from his body…
He heard it.
A voice.
A figure stood over him, shrouded in smoke and shadow, wielding a blackened blade veined with molten fire. Amber eyes stared down into his soul, unblinking.
He offered a hand.
An offer of retribution.
A way to make the wrong things right.
And with the fire of grief still burning in his chest—
Gunnar accepted.
And from the darkness, the old dwarf rose again.
****
High above the city, perched on the rooftop, Gunnar opened his eyes. Amber irises cut through the curtain of rain, the downpour weeping over Caerleon like the sky itself shared in his grief. Beneath the shadow of his hood, his gaze sharpened. Thunder rolled through the night, rattling the windowpanes below, while lightning carved fleeting ghosts of light across the skyline. His hand flexed around the blackened hilt of his war axe, resting heavy against his shoulder.
"What's on your mind?" came Isha's voice beside him. The elven girl stood still, arms crossed, her hair damp with rain.
"Just... rememberin'," Gunnar muttered. "The good days... an' the damned ones." He exhaled. "Was a night just like this. When I found her."
Isha turned, watching him quietly.
"I held her in me arms. My wee Abigail," he said. His fingers curled into a fist. "Her limbs... broken. One ear near torn clean off. Her eye crushed. Her insides..." He stopped; jaw clenched tight.
"What they did tae her…" His voice trembled, brittle with grief. "Me poor lass. They hurt her—every last one o' them. Like bloody animals. Over an' over again…"
He drew a sharp breath, steadying himself, then exhaled slowly—controlled, but laced with fury.
"I've only ever had two thoughts in my head since," he went on. "First... what she could've been. Grown up strong. Maybe with a family of her own. Maybe I'd be walkin' her down the aisle, beard full o' flowers, tryin' not tae cry like a fool while she wore the bonniest dress ye ever seen." His lips twitched at the memory, then hardened.
"And the second..." His voice turned to gravel. "Is what I'd do tae the bastard that took her from me."
Isha's gaze dropped to the street below—where two men stepped out of the precinct, laughter lost beneath the rain.
Her eyes narrowed. "Well... I suppose we're about to find out."
Gunnar bared his teeth. "Aye... let's."
And with that, they vanished—swallowed by smoke and embers.