There was something about small cities that Manfred Kaltz despised. He could never understand the sense of nostalgia others seemed to carry—how they romanticized the charm of the simple and the rustic. To him, it all stank of stagnation. He had grown up in a place just like this: not quite a city, more a sprawling village dressed in the illusion of relevance. A place where everyone knew everyone else, and where a single factory or trade kept the heart of the town beating.
It was a town where ambition went to die. Where people married young, inherited the same roles as their parents, and passed down that same dull legacy to the next generation. The rhythm of life was routine—safe, predictable, suffocating. That had been Manfred's future too, if he hadn't clawed his way out.
He remembered his father hunched over a bottle of cheap whiskey more often than a timecard. His mother, quiet, obedient, always apologizing for things that weren't her fault. They were the kind of people who had given up long before life finished beating them down. Manfred bore no resemblance to them, and more than once, he wondered if he truly belonged to them at all.
He had no intention of dying in that shack with its rotting floorboards and rusted roof. No intention of becoming one of the lost, like the others who chased opportunity only to return, broken and bitter, after the industry that sustained the town finally ground to a halt.
No—Manfred Kaltz was meant for more.
The Clock Tower had been his lifeline. The first rung on a ladder that would take him to power, to influence, to something that would last. He didn't want comfort. He didn't want family. He wanted to matter. To be feared. To hold the kind of authority that would make men twice his age stand in silence when he entered a room.
And he would have it.
Even if he had to burn everything behind him to get there.
Rain dripped steadily from the brim of his fedora, each tap on the fabric a fresh needle to his growing irritation. The rhythm was relentless, much like his thoughts, which circled back to his encounter with Captain Langston. He scoffed aloud. The arrogance—the sheer gall of that fossil—to speak to an Adjudicator with such insolence. Langston, with all his outdated ideals and hollow titles, clinging to the legend of Overdeath like a child to a bedtime story. A relic of a bygone era.
The Clock Tower had evolved past men like Langston. There was no room left for lofty notions of justice or truth. Only power mattered—and the will to seize it. That was a lesson Manfred had learned early. While others coasted on family names or patronage, he had clawed his way up through the filth.
Days spent buried in law books, nights bent beneath the weight of unappreciated work in broom-closet offices shared with men too blind to see his potential. He had survived the crucible of the courts, not by seeking truth—but by ensuring the guilty verdict was all but guaranteed. Innocence was an obstacle. Truth was malleable. Outcomes were what mattered.
And yet… Lamar's fixation with Langston puzzled him.
Was it simple paranoia? Fear of a loose end refusing to stay buried? Did Lamar believe Langston still held some sway—some threat? Manfred doubted it. The man was wounded, worn thin, and surrounded by ghosts. He had no real power. Nothing that couldn't be stripped away with a whisper and a well-placed signature.
In the end, nothing Langston said would matter. There would be no inquiry. No internal audit. No accountability. Just a closed-door conversation, a quiet nod, and a reminder to know his place.
That was the Clock Tower's justice.
And Manfred Kaltz was its most loyal servant.
"Damn rain," Callahan muttered, brushing water off his jacket with a quick swipe. "Swear to God, this city's been soggy since the day I got here. I'm soaked straight through."
Manfred cast a glance at the young man beside him. He wouldn't go so far as to call Callahan a friend—more a convenient associate. A colleague whose career had, by circumstance and strategy, often intersected with his own. Truthfully, Manfred loathed him. Callahan's very presence grated like sand beneath the skin—coarse, unwelcome, irritating in every breath. He embodied everything Manfred despised about the Tower, about the world: the ease with which the privileged few soared, propelled not by merit, but by inheritance—Platas, connections, and carefully bartered promises.
While Manfred had clawed tooth and nail for every ounce of recognition, Callahan had coasted, wrapped in the silk of old money and family name. And yet… he was useful. Lacking in intellect, but bloated with wealth and—more importantly—immunity. His influence acted like a shield, deflecting scrutiny, silencing consequences. More than once, Manfred had relied on that protection to see a case buried, or a threat neutralized. In many ways, Callahan was the perfect tool—crude, but effective.
Almost.
If not for his insatiable lust for therianthropes—and the inevitable scandals it birthed. A liability wrapped in privilege. And even the most useful tools eventually rust.
Manfred adjusted his glasses with a precise flick of his fingers, then slipped his hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat. "It's spring—rain's to be expected anywhere in Avalon," he said dryly. "But between you and me, the weather's the least of our troubles. If we don't hand Lamar someone to hang for this mess, we're all for the chopping block. The city's on edge, the Tower's crumbling, and the Mayor's baying for blood. Someone high up. Someone that'll make headlines."
Callahan scoffed. "You always this dramatic?" He slicked back his rain-soaked blonde hair with a shrug. "This ain't a courtroom, Manfred. People aren't clinging to every word like it's some tragic play. It's a mess, sure—but you ask me, the whole thing's been blown way outta proportion."
Manfred didn't answer straight away. He passed beneath the flickering glow of the streetlamp, rain slipping in rivulets down the brim of his hat. "Perhaps. But something's rattled Lamar… and in all the years I've known him, I've never seen a living soul manage that."
Callahan scoffed, water flicking off his sleeve as he rubbed rain from his chin. "Besides, what's Lamar's deal with that old fart Langston anyway?" he sneered.
"Guy's well past his prime—slow, soft, washed up. Got blindsided by an orc in his own damned backyard. Should've stayed down with that stiff of his. Would've saved us the trouble." He chuckled bitterly. "Hell, watching the so-called Hero of Vol'dunin go splat? That would've made my week."
His grin thinned, soured into something meaner. "Walks around like he's better than the rest of us. Like the air changes when he enters a room. Bastard acts like the stench of the Tower doesn't cling to him too."
The rain poured heavier now, slapping the pavement like an angry drum. The streets were empty, eerily so. The only noise was the steady hiss of rainfall, the occasional thundercrack, and the electric hum of flickering neon signs that painted the soaked concrete in shades of pink, blue, and red. Lightning flashed, throwing long, twitching shadows across the alley.
Manfred felt it in his gut first. That old, quiet voice of instinct. Something was off. Like eyes behind glass, watching through the static of a storm. His brow twitched. He didn't like it.
Callahan kept talking, completely unaware—or unconcerned—about how loud his voice carried in the rain. "I say let those Nemesis freaks crawl out of whatever pit they've been hiding in. Doesn't bother me none." He flashed a cocky grin. "Not like I've pissed off anyone worth losing sleep over. And even if I did?" He gave a shrug. "They'd end up in the dirt like all the others. Simple as that."
Manfred scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself. You've got half the precinct, a dozen barmaids, and at least three departments who'd pay good coin to see your head on a pike and your best bits shoved down your throat. Let's not pretend you're the bleeding picture of moral integrity."
Callahan shot him a sidelong grin, equal parts amusement and venom. "Says the guy who turned perjury into a damn art form. Tell me, how many poor bastards are rotting in Revel's End 'cause of that silver tongue of yours and a couple of well-timed lies?"
Manfred didn't answer. He didn't need to. But he stopped walking.
Because the street had gone too quiet.
And the whisper in his mind?
It had just turned into a scream.
"Hey, what's the holdup?" Callahan called over his shoulder. "Let's get outta this storm already!"
Manfred suddenly raised a hand, eyes narrowing. "Wait. Do you hear that?"
Callahan blinked, his smirk faltering. "Hear wh—"
A sharp whistle cut through the downpour—something slicing the air fast. Manfred's expression twisted with alarm as his hand darted for his wand.
"Protego!"
A golden shield flared to life just in time as a volley of arrows slammed into it, sparking violently before vanishing in curls of smoke. Callahan cursed and drew his sword, catching the glint of steel an instant too late—a small axe spun through the rain and struck his blade, the clash shrieking as it deflected and buried itself in a nearby car windshield, before vanishing into a puff of black mist.
The shield fizzled out.
Both men turned in opposite directions, eyes scanning the shadows. Manfred's breath was sharp, rattled, chest heaving as he spotted the lithe silhouette of an elven girl standing a distance from him, amber eyes glowing through the rain like fire through smoke.
Callahan's face drained of color as a stocky figure stepped into the lamplight—drenched, cloaked, and clutching a massive axe in one hand. The hood came down, revealing a face he'd never forgotten.
"Remember me?" they said in unison.
Manfred's words caught in his throat. "Isha… Sinclair."
Callahan staggered back a step. "G-Gunnar… Ironfeld."
****
The thunder cracked, rattling the rain-slicked windows of the towering office that overlooked the endless sprawl of the Crown City. Lights shimmered below, stretching to the horizon like a sea of gold. Bran sat alone at the long crystal table in the far corner, a steaming cup of chamomile tea cradled in his hands. He sipped slowly, letting the warmth ease the dull ache behind his eyes as he stared at the mess of scattered papers and aging reports—records dating back nearly two decades.
With a sigh, he set the cup back on its saucer and rubbed his temple. His gaze drifted across the opulent office: marble floors imported from some far-flung land, pristine walls dressed in deep royal blue and trimmed in polished gold. Art deco flourishes curled across the architecture, while shelves lined with untouched books gathered more dust than attention. Paintings of men he didn't know—and cared even less about—hung like silent sentinels above.
At the other end of the office stood a grand executive desk, and above it, a family portrait of the Dryfus line.
Bran had never set foot in this office before—despite Laxus's many invitations to visit the headquarters of the Dryfus Trading Company. He had always declined, not out of rudeness, but to avoid the inevitable speculation that might arise from an Adjudicator seen too close to the head of Avalon's largest slaver consortium. That, and his own quiet disdain for the trade itself, no matter how highly he regarded Laxus as a man.
But all of that seemed irrelevant now.
What happened in Stornaway had changed everything. Asriel's return had shaken him to the core, stirred something in him he had spent a lifetime ignoring. A quiet truth, a haunting suspicion. Now, the mask was beginning to crack—the Tower's pristine façade flaking away to reveal something far uglier beneath.
And for once, Bran was ready to see it. To tear it down, piece by piece.
If this was the beginning of the reckoning, then so be it. He owed it to Asriel.
And he owed it to Godric.
"So, found anything worth its spit?" Laxus asked as he approached, his footsteps heavy. The broad-chested man carried a mug of coffee in one hand, the muscles in his arms bulging beneath a shirt that fit more like a second skin. Black suspenders stretched taut across his torso.
Bran looked up from the crystal table, pushing back his chair with a quiet scrape. "Possibly," he replied.
He gathered a small stack of papers. "I've started piecing things together—details that were far too deliberate to be coincidence. For starters," he pointed to one document, "the Sinclair case."
"Sinclair?" Laxus repeated, folding his arms. "Yeah, I remember that mess. Whole city lost its mind. Murder of Lady Gloreth, right?" He shook his head, frowning. "Tragic business. She was loved by damn near everyone. Did a lot of good—helped the poor, pushed for housing reform, even tried to revive the docks. And don't get me started on her crusade to abolish slavery in Camelot."
"Which, naturally, didn't sit well with Avalon's upper crust," Bran said. "The case itself… far too clean. Almost scripted. But that's not what drew my attention."
He picked up another sheet and tapped it. "Take a look. The name of the lead prosecutor."
Laxus leaned in. "Manfred Kaltz," he read aloud. "Doesn't seem strange to me."
Bran laid down another paper. "Now look who spearheaded the Valerian case."
Laxus's brow furrowed. "Well, I'll be damned. Same bastard."
"And if memory serves," Bran continued, "the Sinclair case had a key witness. One who mysteriously vanished just before testimony. And the investigating officer?"
"Captain Callahan," Laxus muttered, the names like acid on his tongue.
Bran nodded grimly. "And here," he held up a third file, "a case in Caerleon. A therian girl. Guess who made that one vanish."
Laxus didn't even need to look. "Kaltz?"
"Quite right," Bran said coolly. "Their names crop up time and again across a slew of controversial cases. The pair of them—like some parasitic symbiosis. When Kaltz needs a conviction, Callahan's conveniently there to deliver it. And when Callahan finds himself neck-deep in trouble, Kaltz suddenly appears as the miracle man to clean it all up."
"I've known Manfred a long time," Bran said, adjusting his glasses with a slow push of his finger. "He's gutless, twisted, and grotesquely ambitious. The sort of man who'd sell his own mother if it meant climbing a rung higher. He's had his eye on the Head Adjudicator's chair since the day he was handed his badge—and he's never been shy about what he's willing to do to get there."
He paused, then added, "Same can be said for Captain Callahan. The man doesn't have a file, he's got an entire bloody cabinet. Especially when it comes to his… appetite for therians."
Bran picked up another sheet from the stack, tapping it thoughtfully. "But all that aside, I cross-referenced the list of Nemesis's targets. Every last one of them—either directly involved or tangentially connected to some of the Tower's most damning, most controversial cases. And do you know what they all have in common?"
He glanced up. "They were all named in the Valerian case."
Laxus let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing. "You're tellin' me all this is connected? Every last one of 'em's got blood on their hands… and Keenah knew?"
"Yes and no," Bran replied, reaching for a worn binder. The cover was cracked, the pages yellowed with age. "None of it's in the recent files—not from the last twenty years, at least." He flipped it open with care, each turn of the page deliberate. "I followed every lead, traced every thread… and it all led back to this." He tapped the page firmly. "The Dah'tan Incident."
Laxus took a long, uneasy sip of his coffee, his grip tightening around the mug.
Bran's jaw clenched. "Whatever Keenah had—whatever he uncovered—it wasn't just damning. It was fatal. Enough to tear down the Tower from the inside. Enough to put Lamar and every one of his inner circle in shackles… or a grave."
There was a heavy silence before Laxus spoke. "So, what the hell do we do now?"
"We speak to someone who was there. Someone who survived it." His eyes hardened. "It's time I had a word with my grandfather."
****
Thunder split the sky with a deafening crack, the shockwave rattling the pavement beneath their feet. Rain poured in relentless sheets, beating against the concrete, drowning the city in a curtain of grey. Neon from flickering signboards cast ghostly glows on the soaked street as the two men stood frozen—trapped beneath the weight of memory and dread.
Manfred and Callahan locked eyes with the phantoms of their past—faces they had once dismissed, betrayed, destroyed. Now, they stood returned, alive and burning with vengeance.
Time slowed. Rain dripped from collars, from brows, from clenched fists. Chest heaved. No words passed between them. No spells. No swords. Just the sickening silence of inevitability.
Then, Callahan smirked. "Well," he muttered, "been nice knowin' you, friend." Without another word, he turned and bolted, boots splashing through puddles as he vanished down a narrow alleyway.
"Callahan, you bloody coward!" Manfred snarled after him.
Isha didn't take her eyes off him. She glanced sideways at Gunnar, who gave a grim nod before vanishing into smoke and embers—like a ghost dragged back to Hell for one final hunt.
Manfred turned to face her, wand raised, fingers trembling despite himself.
"I suppose it's true," Isha said, her bow dark and gleaming, pulsing with veins of embered fire. "A man has no friends when death comes calling."
She tilted her head, gaze narrowing.
"Then again… you never knew what friendship meant. And now, you'll die as you lived—worthless, and alone."
Manfred sneered, adjusting his glasses with a flick. "We'll see about that, peck."
****
Callahan tore through the rain-soaked alley, boots splashing through puddles as water streamed from the rooftops into crooked gutters. His breath came ragged, sword gripped tight in his hand, eyes darting over his shoulder, expecting the phantom of vengeance to be right behind him.
But when he turned forward—
A roar split the air as Gunnar materialized from smoke and embers, the butt of his axe slamming full-force into Callahan's chest. The younger man wheezed, the wind ripped from his lungs as he crashed to the ground, skidding through rain and grit.
Before he could draw a breath, Gunnar grabbed him by the collar, hauled him up with a grunt, and flung him headfirst into a rusted dumpster. The metal caved with a loud crunch.
Callahan crumpled, groaning—but the dwarf was on him again.
With another bellow, Gunnar swung—his axe catching fire mid-motion. Callahan's eyes flew open as he rolled aside, the heated blade crashing into the side of the dumpster, sending sparks flying.
He scrambled to his feet, barely raising his sword before Gunnar was upon him, spinning the axe with terrifying ease. Their blades met, but the dwarf's sheer power sent Callahan flying backward, crashing against the alley wall with a grunt.
Then the axe left Gunnar's hand.
Callahan barely had time to scream before he dove out of the way. The axe spun through the air and buried itself in the brick wall behind him, embedding deep with a hiss of molten steel.
Gunnar marched forward, hand outstretched—his weapon yanked free from the wall with a burst of smoke, flying back into his grip.
"Nowhere left tae run, Callahan," Gunnar snarled, eyes glowing like hot coals. "Nowhere left tae hide. I've dreamt o' this day. Every night. Fer years."
He stepped closer, rain cascading off his shoulders.
"Dreamt o' makin' ye suffer. Dreamt o' makin' ye pay—for what ye did tae me daughter!"
"Daughter…" Callahan tapped his chin, feigning thought. "Daughter, daughter, daughter…" He snapped his fingers. "Ah! You mean that little kitty cat back in Caerleon. That was yours?"
He grinned—bloody teeth bared in a mockery of confidence. But there was fear in his eyes. Just a flicker.
"Can't say I saw the resemblance."
Gunnar's roar shook the rain-soaked alley as he swung his axe. Steel met steel—sparks flying as Callahan caught the blow with a draw of his sword, their blades locking. The younger man leaned in, pressing his weight forward, breath hot against the dwarf's face.
"She wasn't the prettiest tail I've had," Callahan sneered, eyes gleaming with cruel delight. "But she was tight. Took a bit o' effort, sure—but oh, did she cry. Did she scream." He laughed. "I enjoyed every second of it!"
The words hit like acid. Gunnar's face contorted—rage erupting behind his amber eyes.
He slammed his forehead into Callahan's nose with a sickening crunch.
The man staggered back, blood pouring from his face. He touched it, blinked at the red on his fingers—then started laughing. "She begged, you know. Me and the boys, we went at her again… and again… and again. Cried the whole time, poor thing. Took a while before she finally broke."
Callahan lunged with a ragged scream, thrusting his blade forward in desperation.
The steel punched through Gunnar's chest.
The dwarf jerked with the force of it—his breath caught mid-growl. Blackened blood bubbled from his lips as he staggered, the blade buried deep. His grip slackened for only a moment; shoulders hunched under the weight of pain.
Callahan's grin widened, eyes glowing with deranged pride. "But the best part? She kept calling for someone. Screaming their name. Pleading."
He leaned closer, whispering.
"Addith."
Gunnar froze.
Callahan's grin twisted deeper. "Did a little digging when I got back to Camelot. Addith. Dwarven, right? Means father."
He let that linger, watching the blood drain from Gunnar's face.
"She was calling for you, old man." Callahan grinned, blood on his teeth. "And you never came."
He laughed, cruel and breathless. "I'll admit it, she got my rocks off good, right until the end."
His eyes lit up with something twisted. "I can still feel it—her body going limp, her breath catching in my hands, the light fading from her eye. Gods, I got so damned hard choking the life out of—"
Something inside Gunnar snapped.
A roar exploded from his chest. He grabbed Callahan's sword still lodged in his chest and with a surge of fury, brought his axe down, shattering the blade in half.
Callahan stumbled back, wide-eyed.
Gunnar stepped forward, swinging in a brutal arc—the axe cleaved through his forearm, severing it just below the elbow. Blood sprayed against the alley walls. Callahan's shriek pierced the rain as he crumpled to the ground, clutching the stump, writhing.
His eyes, once full of cruelty, now brimmed with panic and horror.
Gunnar loomed over him.
"Ye should've stayed buried in whatever pit spat ye out," he growled. "Cause now, yer gonna wish I never found ye."
He twirled his axe once before slamming it into the ground, the blade biting deep into the concrete with a heavy clang, standing upright like a monument of wrath.
"Long before they called me Gunnar Ironfeld…" he growled, "…I was the scourge o' the battlefield. The devil o' the forge. The beast o' the bloody Iron Hills."
He cracked his knuckles, rain streaking down his face like war paint.
"I was the last o' the dwarven berserkers… and now, boy…" He bared his teeth. "You'll learn why."
****
The street flared with neon bursts and magical fire, the hiss of rain drowned only by the clash of will and vengeance. Arrows streaked through the air, sharp as lightning, while spells cracked like thunder against stone and steel.
Isha danced between cover, her bowstring thrumming with each shot. Manfred's wand flashed in precise counterstrikes, his conjured shield deflecting her arrows—until one clipped the brim of his fedora, launching it into the wind.
His eyes flared; jaw clenched. "Depulso!"
The blast struck Isha square in the chest, hurling her back. Blood flecked her lips, but her grip held fast. Even as she stumbled, she loosed another arrow—this one sinking deep into Manfred's side. He cried out, the wound flaring before the arrow dissolved, leaving a burning sting beneath his ribs.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" Isha spat; breath ragged. "That's just a spark of what I've lived with. What every soul you condemned felt in their final breath."
Manfred sneered, clutching his side. "Spare me the righteous refuse. Every one of them was filth. Criminals. The world's better off."
Isha's bitter laugh cut through the rain. "Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night? You've lied so well, you've fooled even your own reflection."
Manfred straightened, wiping blood from his lip with a gloved hand. "Truth. Lies. None of it matters." His words cold, clinical. "The world doesn't want justice. It craves theatre. Heroes to idolize. Villains to burn. Courts exist to sell a narrative, nothing more. I simply learned to write the script."
Isha's expression hardened, her eyes burning like coals. "Was that what my brother was to you? Just another role to cast aside?"
Manfred pushed up his glasses, rain trickling down his cheek. "Arno Sinclair was a pawn," he said. "One among many in a game far more intricate than your narrow mind could grasp. We could've chosen any impoverished little peck from the docks—but your brother happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time."
Isha's expression twisted, her jaw tightening.
"And he was perfect," Manfred continued. "Orphan. No money. No future. And a sickly little sister who wouldn't live to see spring." He gave a cruel smile. "Neat. Convenient. And most importantly—disposable."
"You bastard…" Isha growled.
"Oh, I owe him more than you think," Manfred went on, ignoring her fury. "That case earned me a promotion, prestige, and the badge I'd dreamt of since I was a boy. Watching him swing from that noose…" He shrugged, lips curling. "A satisfying footnote."
Isha inhaled sharply, her chest rising with barely-contained fury. "You know," she said, "I've killed everyone who had a hand in that case. One by one."
Manfred's smile began to falter.
"The guards. The jury. The lawyers. Judge Stevens…" She paused. "Captain Clegane."
He stiffened.
"I gave Clegane a chance. A chance to find the words that might offer some shred of dignity before I ended him." Her eyes blazed. "But you? I won't offer you that mercy. Because now I realize, I didn't come here to hear you speak…"
She raised her bow, flame crackling along the string.
"I came to hear you scream."