Jeanne's gaze flickered between the two men, their silent standoff thick with tension. Bastion, despite the weight of the moment, wore a cocky grin, his mismatched eyes alight with something dangerously close to amusement. Goras, on the other hand, was rigid, his expression twisted with disdain—but Jeanne noticed the way his jaw clenched, the faint sheen of sweat gathering at his temple, the slight, almost imperceptible stutter in his breath. Whatever history existed between them; one thing was clear—Goras was afraid.
"You're a long way from home, Reinhardt," Goras said coolly. "And once again, you're interfering in Authority business. So I'll only say this once—walk away while you still can."
Bastion let out a short, amused breath. "Normally, I'd be inclined to do just that." He took a casual step forward, resting a hand on the hilt of the shorter sword at his hip. "But that was before your little piggy here decided it was a good idea to beat on a civilian. That makes it my business."
"She assaulted an Agent of the Authority," Goras snapped. "I was well within my rights to—"
"I don't give a damn if she river-danced butt-naked on your mother's grave," Bastion interrupted. His fingers tapped idly against the hilt of his blade; his stance relaxed yet coiled with an underlying tension. "Far as I'm concerned, the Guild holds jurisdiction over slave-related matters—that's where your leash ends. Pretty sure roughing up civilians ain't part of the job description."
His gaze drifted over the battered man on the ground, the trembling girls pressed against the broken storefront, then back to Goras. "And here's the thing—I don't take kindly to filth like you throwing your weight around." He spat on the ground between them, his eyes cold and sharp. "And I really don't take kindly to bastards who pick on kids."
Goras bared his teeth, his hands curling into fists. "You forget your place," he growled. "And right now, you're treading on some very thin ice."
"Shut your damned peck mouth," Bastion shot back.
Jeanne didn't recognize the insult, but whatever it meant, it landed hard—Goras' entire body tensed, his face twisting in a mixture of fury and humiliation. The other enforcers exchanged uneasy glances, their grips tightening on their weapons.
Bastion exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Seems like you've conveniently forgotten what happened the last time you pushed your luck with me." His grin was all teeth now. "You Authority pigs think flashing a badge means you can do whatever the hell you want? Hate to break it to you, but that fancy little scrap of metal don't mean shit to me."
His eyes narrowed, his stance shifting slightly—almost imperceptible, but Jeanne noticed. The casual arrogance in his posture was a carefully veiled warning.
"Besides," Bastion continued, "The Clock Tower might be corrupt as sin, but even they don't want your kind running unchecked. And let's be honest—the Guild's gotten a little too big for its britches." His smirk darkened. "Might be time someone cut it back down to size."
Goras exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, his patience visibly fraying. "Fine," he spat. "Take that mailëa and leave, and I'll overlook this blatant disrespect."
Bastion let out a short, amused breath and shook his head. "Uh-uh." He gestured toward Donaldson, still on the ground, blood trickling from his split lip. "You take those cuffs off him too."
"Out of the question," Goras snapped. "He knowingly harbored fugitives and aided an insurgent group. He's coming with us."
"Then no deal." Bastion shrugged. "Looks like we're at an impasse." He tilted his head. "Ball's in your court now, peck. So, what's it goanna be?"
Goras scoffed, but there was something else beneath the arrogance—a flicker of doubt. "You mean to tell me you're willing to die…" His gaze flicked to Jeanne and the battered man at her feet. "For them?"
Bastion wrapped his hand around the hilt of his weapon, his knuckles paling against the worn leather. "Someone is." His mismatched eyes gleamed with quiet menace.
"Or at the very least, someone's goanna be in a full body cast having breakfast through a straw and shitting in diapers for the next six months." He leaned in slightly. "Just like old times, huh?"
The elf's jaw clenched. Around him, the enforcers tensed, hands tightening around their weapons, shifting uneasily. The air was thick with tension, the crackling anticipation settling deep into the bones of those watching. The gathered crowd, once cautious and wary, had now surrendered to their curiosity, murmuring amongst themselves as their eyes darted between Bastion and the Authority enforcers. A fight was inevitable, and no one wanted to miss it.
Bastion reached for the golden clasp at his shoulder, unbuckling the belt that secured the massive sword strapped across his back. With practiced ease, he lifted it over his shoulders and handed it off to Jeanne.
The moment her hands closed around the hilt, she nearly stumbled under its sheer weight. For a second, she could do little more than brace herself, fingers tightening against the worn leather grip.
"Hold onto this for me, will you?" His tone was light, but his eyes never left the enforcers. "And you might want to take a few steps back."
Jeanne's breath caught in her throat, her eyes flickering between the sword and the man who had just entrusted it to her. She swallowed, nodding stiffly before dragging the blade backward, distancing herself from what was about to unfold.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Bastion drew the short sword from its scabbard, the silver blade catching the light as it cleared the sheath.
The enforcers stiffened, shifting into ready stances.
Goras took a measured breath, lifting his chin as he smoothed back his hair with a casual grace that did little to hide the malice in his gaze. His coat flared slightly as he adjusted it, dusting off the fabric as though preparing himself for something tedious, something beneath him.
His cold blue eyes flicked downward, taking in the sight of Donaldson, still sprawled across the cobblestones, struggling to lift himself. Then, his gaze swept over the young girls huddled nearby, their eyes wide, their bodies trembling.
The amusement in his smirk deepened.
"Seems that you never learn, do you Reinhardt," Goras mused, taunting. "Pity we're on opposite sides. You could've done great things with the Authority."
Bastion exhaled. "Yeah? Well excuse me for having a conscience."
Goras' smirk remained, but there was something darker behind his eyes now. He flexed his fingers, and with a sharp snap, the enforcers lunged.
****
Rowena sighed, rubbing her temple as they made their way down the bustling street. "I cannot believe you got us booted from Pixie Pantry again," she muttered, exasperation lacing every word. "At this rate, Pierre's going to put up a no entry sign with your face on it."
Helga only grinned, completely unrepentant. "Hey, if they didn't want me gnawing on the decorations, they shouldn't have made them look so darn delicious." She licked a stray smudge of frosting off her thumb. "Besides, that cardboard castle could've used more icing."
Salazar smirked, clearly enjoying Rowena's frustration far more than he should. "Helga, dear, if it weren't for the fact that Pixie Pantry sells the finest peppermint pops in all of Caerleon, I'd say your penchant for chaos is rather admirable."
"Salazar, please don't encourage her," Rowena groaned. "If she gets us banned from one more shop, we'll be spending the rest of our school years eating at salad bars."
Salazar chuckled, shaking his head. "For that, Rowena, I have no doubt."
Before Rowena could continue her scolding, Helga's eyes suddenly locked onto something in the distance. Her expression shifted, curiosity lighting up her face as she pointed toward the end of the street, where a crowd had begun to gather.
"Hey, what's going on over there?" she asked, tilting her head. Then, with a gleam of excitement, she practically bounced in place. "Ooh! Is it a new dessert launch?"
The sharp clang of metal against metal rang through the air, punctuated by the crackling sparks of spells ricocheting off enchanted steel. Salazar's emerald eyes narrowed as he observed the scene unfolding before them. "I doubt sweets come with a side of mayhem," he muttered, already striding forward. "Come on."
Helga and Rowena hurried after him, pushing their way through the crowd that had gathered at the street's edge. As they broke through the front, their eyes locked onto the chaos in the center. A man clad in AEGIS garb moved with swift precision, ducking and weaving between four attackers in unfamiliar uniforms. His short sword met their batons with a shower of sparks, deflecting each strike with expert timing. An elven man stood behind them, wand in hand, flicking it with sharp precision—blasting spells toward the AEGIS Guardian, only for them to be dissipated mid-air with effortless swings of the man's blade.
Helga's amber gaze darted across the scene, quickly piecing together the elements at play—the battered man on the sidewalk, the three young slave girls clutching each other in fear, and the fierce battle taking place in the middle of it all. "By Fornac's gummy gumdrops, what in blazes is going on?" she asked.
Rowena's breath hitched as her eyes locked onto a familiar figure. Her brows furrowed in disbelief. "Wait… is that Jeanne?" she asked, pointing toward the blonde girl standing to the side of the fight, gripping a massive sword as tall as her.
Salazar's arms crossed over his chest, his expression darkening. A scoff left his lips. "The Authority," he spat, as if the very name left a foul taste in his mouth.
Helga blinked, puzzled. "The Authority? Who the heck are they?"
Salazar didn't even spare her a glance as he answered. "The Burra Authoritas," he said, the name rolling off his tongue like a slur. "Agents of the Slaver's Guild, tasked with enforcing the Ius Servitium—slave laws. Ensuring they're followed to the letter." His jaw tightened. "And ensuring no one steps out of line."
Rowena nodded. "They're essentially the Clock Tower's counterpart in matters of slavery. Their jurisdiction doesn't extend to wizarding law, but within their realm, they hold absolute authority."
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Bran has spoken about them before—how their influence, their methods, have been the source of conflict between the two factions for centuries. It goes without saying that there's no love lost between them."
"For once, I find myself agreeing with your brother," Salazar muttered, eyes glinting with restrained fury. "Monsters hiding behind legal doctrine, given free rein to commit atrocities under the guise of order."
Rowena's gaze flickered back to Jeanne, still clutching the oversized sword with visible tension in her stance. "That aside," she muttered, eyes narrowing, "what in Hecate's name is Jeanne doing there?"
Salazar let out a low chuckle. "A hundred Platas says she's the cause of this whole debacle."
Helga snorted. "Not surprised."
Rowena exhaled, shaking her head. "Funny enough, I can actually see that happening."
****
Bastion moved like a storm unleashed, his blade a blur of silver and fire as it clashed against the enforcers' batons, sending sparks flying with each strike. They came at him in pairs, trying to overwhelm him with sheer force, but he was faster—more precise. He stepped into their swings, twisting his body to avoid direct hits, countering with brutal efficiency.
The pommel of his sword cracked against ribs and jawlines, each strike sending waves of pain through armored bodies. His blade bit through their protective gear with ease, crimson blooming from fresh wounds as he carved through their defenses.
Two of the enforcers crumpled to the ground, their bodies convulsing as blood splattered from their mouths, the light in their eyes fading into unconsciousness. The way they had been effortlessly dispatched left the remaining two frozen in place, gripping their weapons with white-knuckled desperation.
Bastion turned his gaze on them. His mismatched eyes gleamed with a dangerous glint, the smirk on his lips carrying just the right mix of amusement and warning.
"Well?" he drawled. "You boys still feeling lucky?"
Without hesitation, one enforcer lunged, baton raised high. With a flick of his wrist, Bastion redirected the attack with his free hand, twisting the man's wrist before driving his blade deep into his side. The enforcer let out a strangled gasp, blood sputtering from his lips. Before he could recover, Bastion twisted the blade free and leapt, driving his knee hard into the man's face, sending him sprawling backward in a heap.
The last one came at him, swinging wildly. Bastion sidestepped, his blade whistling through the air as he parried before springing back, his sword now trained on his opponent.
"Confringo!"
A burst of searing light shot from the tip of his blade, striking the enforcer square in the face. The man howled, hands flying to his burning skin, his baton clattering to the ground. Bastion didn't hesitate—he closed the distance in a flash, slashing across the man's abdomen. A choked gasp escaped his lips as he doubled over, staggering.
Bastion took a step forward, his blade still humming with latent energy. Without looking back, he adjusted his grip, shifting his weight before raising the sword behind him.
"Depulso!"
The force of the spell slammed into the back of the enforcer's head like a hammer, sending him face-first into the concrete sidewalk with a sickening crunch. A blotch of crimson spread beneath his motionless form.
Bastion exhaled, rolling his shoulder, before turning his attention to Goras.
A slow, predatory smirk curled his lips. "Your move, peck."
****
"Did… did he just—?" Helga's amber eyes went wide as she struggled to process what she had just witnessed.
"He used magic… with a sword?" For the first time, Salazar was at a loss for words. His usual sharp wit momentarily dulled by sheer disbelief. "But that's impossible."
"Sword Artes…" Rowena exhaled, the words leaving her lips like a whispered revelation. "I've read about it before, but only in ancient texts. I thought it was nothing more than myth—something long lost to time." She swallowed hard. "To see it with my own eyes…"
Salazar turned to her, his emerald gaze flickering between intrigue and unease. "Are you telling me there are wizards out there who can wield magic without the use of a wand?" A slow grin crept across his lips. "I was right. This year is shaping up to be one hell of a spectacle."
"But how?" Helga's voice was almost a whisper. "I've never seen anyone cast spells without a wand, let alone channel them through a sword." A thought struck her, and she turned to Rowena, brows furrowed. "Does that mean Godric can do it too?"
Rowena shook her head. "I don't know much, but from what I've gathered, there's a magical institution in Avalon that specializes in teaching sword magic. Due to its unorthodox methods, it was never recognized as one of the Five Great Magic Schools of Avalon."
Her sapphire eyes sharpened as she watched Bastion move with seamless grace, his blade crackling with latent energy. "But if this is what their alumni are capable of… then their lack of recognition is by no means an indication of weakness."
Salazar fingers traced over the hilt of his own wand. "From what we're seeing right now," he mused, watching Bastion with renewed interest, "I'd say you're absolutely right."
****
Bastion and Goras exchanged blows in a flurry of steel and magic, the clash of Bastion's blade against Goras' shimmering barrier sending arcs of light crackling through the air. The elf moved with practiced efficiency, his wand flicking with precision, deflecting the deadly edge of Bastion's sword with bursts of magical force. Bastion pressed forward, driving his blade down in a vicious arc, only for it to collide against Goras' shield, sparks dancing along the barrier like embers from a raging fire.
"Three hundred years of experience, and this is the best you've got?" Bastion sneered. "The girl's right—you are an embarrassment."
"Shut your mouth, len'alas!" Goras spat, his composure cracking as fury darkened his pale face. "I should have put you down the first time we crossed paths!"
"Oh, you tried," Bastion quipped, dodging backward as he effortlessly sidestepping a curse that splintered the cobblestone beneath his feet. "And you failed. Miserably, I might add. Is that why they booted you out of the big city? Couldn't cut it anymore after a rookie wiped the floor with you?"
Goras let out a furious cry, flicking his wand in a sharp motion. "Bombarda!"
A blast of concussive magic erupted toward Bastion, the sheer force of it rattling the nearby buildings. Without hesitation, Bastion twisted his wrist, his blade cutting through the spell as if it were nothing but air. The redirected force slammed into a nearby wall, blowing a gaping hole through the side of a shop, sending debris scattering across the street.
Bastion cast a glance over his shoulder, reaching back toward Jeanne. His fingers curled around the massive hilt of his greatsword. "Much appreciated, sweetheart, I'll be taking that now."
With a single, fluid motion, he drew the massive weapon from her arms. Despite its sheer size, he wielded it effortlessly, as if it were an extension of himself. Resting the blunt end against his shoulder, he shifted into a stance, his grip tightening around the hilt.
"As much as I'd love to keep this little tango going," he mused, rolling his shoulders, "I think it's time we bring this dance to a close." With a flick of his wrist, he revved the hilt of the sword like the throttle of a machine. Instantly, flames burst from the exhaust ports along the blade, igniting the air with a roaring inferno.
Bastion heterochromatic eyes gleamed with exhilaration.
"Come on, peck," he taunted, leveling the flaming sword toward Goras. "Hit me with your best shot."
Goras's face twisted with rage, what remained of his patience snapped like a brittle thread. Letting out a furious cry, he leveled his wand, sparks of volatile energy crackling at its tip as he thrust it forward.
"Mufulgur!"
A streak of blinding blue lightning tore through the air, the voltaic charge sending a sharp tingle through the crowd's skin, hairs standing on end as the atmosphere itself seemed to tremble.
But Bastion was already moving. His feet barely touched the ground as he dashed forward, his short sword raised. In a seamless motion, he slashed through the lightning itself, the arc dissipating into harmless wisps of energy as he closed the distance. Goras barely had time to react before Bastion flipped his greatsword to its blunt edge and brought it crashing into his ribs.
The sound of breaking bone was sickening.
Goras gasped, his body folding over the impact, but Bastion wasn't done. With a flick of his wrist, he revved the handle of his blade, the sword roaring to life with a fiery glow. Flames erupted from its exhaust ports as he struck again, this time across Goras's shoulder, the force of the blow sending shockwaves through his entire body.
A third strike landed across his thigh, shattering the bone beneath. Goras let out a strangled cry, his body convulsing, but Bastion showed no hesitation, no mercy. He spun his massive weapon, gripping it in both hands before swinging it upward in a brutal arc. The blade caught Goras beneath the chin, sending him hurtling into the air like a ragdoll.
Bastion exhaled sharply, his stance shifting in a fluid motion, muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap.
With a flick of his wrist, he pointed his shorter sword toward the ground.
"Ascendo!"
The spell erupted beneath his feet, launching him into the air with staggering speed. Goras barely had a second to react before Bastion was upon him, his blade moving in a brutal flurry. The elf's body jerked violently as steel struck flesh again and again, each impact sending blood splattering into the open air. His cries of pain were choked, drowned out by the sheer force of the assault, his limbs flailing as he was juggled midair.
Bastion's roar cut through the chaos.
"Descendo!"
A pulse of magic exploded from his blade, slamming into Goras midair. The elf's body plummeted, the force of the spell sending him hurtling downward like a falling meteor. He struck the ground with a deafening crack, the sheer impact leaving a deep crater in the ground. Dust and debris billowed outward, a thick cloud swallowing his limp form.
Bastion flipped in midair, gripping his blade tight. As the dust began to settle, he twisted and launched himself downward, bringing the blunt side of his massive sword down in a crushing blow to Goras' stomach. The elf's body convulsed, a sickening gurgle escaping his throat as blood sprayed from his mouth. The force shattered the ground even further, deepening the crater beneath him. The wand slipped from Goras' twitching fingers, clattering uselessly against the stone. His body jerked once, then fell still, his irises rolling back into his skull as unconsciousness consumed him.
The street fell into stunned silence.
Bastion let out a slow breath, sheathing his short sword with a satisfied click before planting his greatsword into the ground. Running a hand through his hair, he slicked it back with a grin, glancing at the awestruck onlookers.
"And that," he declared with a cocky satisfaction, "is how we do it back in Camelot."
The crowd burst into a mix of cheers and applause, some clapping enthusiastically while others exchanged murmurs of disbelief at the spectacle they had just witnessed. Bastion, ever the showman, took an exaggerated bow, sweeping one arm across his chest with a flourish.
"Thank you, thank you," he called out. "I'll be here all week."
A few laughs rippled through the audience, but most eyes remained fixated on the scene before them—the unconscious bodies of the Authority enforcers strewn across the street, Goras crumpled like a broken marionette, and standing amidst the wreckage, Bastion Reinhardt, looking as though he had barely broken a sweat.
But before Bastion could react, movement flickered in the corner of his vision. The enforcer from before, face streaked with blood from his shattered nose, was already mid-swing, baton raised high for a vicious downward strike. Bastion barely had time to turn when steel met steel in a shower of sparks.
The baton was intercepted by a polished blade, its edge glinting coldly under the midday sun. The weapon's wielder, an older man with a hard-set jaw and storm-grey eyes, held his sword firm, his expression unreadable. In one smooth motion, he twisted his wrist, flicking the enforcer's baton away with practiced ease. It clattered against the ground, spinning out of reach.
Before the enforcer could recover, the older man flipped his blade, driving the pommel straight into his already broken face. A sickening crack echoed as more teeth shattered, blood spraying from his mouth as he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Bastion let out a slow exhale. Then his grin faltered as his gaze drifted up to the man before him. The tension in the air shifted instantly.
The older man turned to face him fully now, his eyes narrowed with the kind of anger that made Bastion want to be anywhere but here. His grip on his sword relaxed, but the weight of his glare was sharper than the blade itself.
Bastion scratched the back of his head, flashing an awkward smile.
"Heya, Frank," he said. His gaze flickered between the downed enforcers and back to the man who had just saved his hide. "Uh… I can explain."
As he sheathed his blade, Frank's expression didn't change. If anything, it grew darker.
"Oh, I can't wait to hear this one," he muttered.
****
Frank ran a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath before leveling Bastion with a hard stare. "I take my eyes off you for one second—one damned second—and you turn the streets of Caerleon into a battlefield!" he exclaimed. "And why, oh why, am I not the least bit surprised that you managed to pick a fight with the Authority?"
His gaze swept over the aftermath—the enforcers groaning on the ground, the shattered storefront, the bystanders still lingering—and then landed on the unconscious elf sprawled awkwardly against the stone. "And is that… Goras? Oh, for the love of the Gods, the Chief is going to have a damned aneurysm."
Bastion huffed. "What was I supposed to do, Frank?" He gestured broadly at the fallen enforcers. "They were about to beat on a girl. She's a student. They crossed the line, I stepped in."
Frank let out a sharp sigh, shaking his head. "There will always be someone out there in need of saving, kid. That's the job. But what you don't do is go barreling into conflicts that don't concern you, especially when they involve the Authority."
His mustache bristled as he leaned in. "Do you have any idea the amount of fires I had to put out the last time you put this peck in the hospital? The amount of palms I had to grease so the Chief wouldn't take your badge and throw you into a cell next to the filth you keep scrapping with?"
Bastion scoffed. "Oh, so I should've just stood there like those damned cowards over there?"
He jerked his chin toward the nearby AEGIS guards, who immediately averted their eyes, suddenly finding great interest in their boots. "Watched them work over the girl? Let them get their fun in before hauling her off? I don't think so. I didn't join AEGIS to be some politician's pet, turning a blind eye when someone's getting the life beaten out of them."
Frank exhaled sharply, rubbing at his temples. "Like it or not, kid, the world doesn't run on ideals. It runs on laws, and it runs on bureaucracy." His words were low but firm, each word edged with warning. "And you always seem to forget—you're still a rookie. You don't get far in this line of work stepping on toes. I've told you that a hundred times."
Bastion's jaw tensed, his grip tightening around the hilt of his short sword. "For someone my grandpa used to call a friend, you sure as hell don't act like him."
Frank's expression darkened, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. "You don't get to drag your grandfather into this!" he snapped. "Your family's name might be whispered in reverence throughout the Clock Tower but influence only gets you so far, and it sure as Hell won't save you from the consequences."
The low rumble of approaching vehicles sent a fresh wave of tension through the air. AEGIS transports rolled up next to the site, their armored wheels grinding against the road. The doors swung open, and guards clad in full gear spilled out, weapons ready, moving with calculated precision.
Then, a single man stepped out of the lead vehicle.
Dressed in a fine grey coat, every stitch of fabric screaming authority, Sheriff George Hartshorne cut an imposing figure as he stormed toward the chaos. His expression twisted in fury, lines of age and frustration carved deep into his face. The moment he locked eyes with Frank and Bastion, the air turned sharp as a blade.
"Oh, just kill me now," Frank muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. "Hartshorne."
The sheriff's voice cracked through the street like a whip. "What in the bloody hell is going on here?" His eyes swept across the wreckage—the battered enforcers, the unconscious Goras, the shattered storefront, the scattered civilians still whispering amongst themselves.
Then, his gaze landed back on them, burning with accusation. "When the Director had you and your partner transferred to Caerleon, Franklin, I didn't think I'd be dealing with a loose cannon running riot in my city!"
Frank raised his hands in a placating gesture. "George, please, allow me to—"
"Save it." Hartshorne didn't even let him finish. His eyes locked onto Bastion now, sharp and appraising. "I know of you, boy. I've heard the stories. And believe me when I say, none of them paint you in a good light."
His tone was cold, razor-edged. "But I suppose that's to be expected, given the infamy your family carries within the Tower. Loose. Reckless. A blatant disregard for rules and authority. The Clock Tower may have looked the other way before, but mark my words, boy—so long as you are in my city, I will tolerate none of it."
Bastion's jaw clenched. "Big words from such a little man," he spat.
"I beg your pardon?" Hartshorne said, more appalled than anything.
Frank stiffened beside him, but Bastion wasn't done.
"The great Sheriff of Caerleon—sitting pretty in his office while animals like these run rampant and unchecked." He gestured toward the unconscious enforcers.
"Tell me, is it standard procedure for your men to stand by and watch as civilians get brutalized in broad daylight? To let scum in uniform attack children while you play politics?" He leaned in, his mismatched eyes burning into Hartshorne's. "Or is that just how things work in Caerleon?"
A deadly silence followed.
The AEGIS guards shifted uneasily.
Hartshorne's expression didn't change—didn't flinch—but his fingers twitched at his side, a tell Bastion didn't miss.
Hartshorne's eyes darkened. "Watch yourself, boy. I offer no leniency, no reprieve for those who cross me. Within these walls, my word is law."
Bastion's smirk deepened, but there was no amusement behind it, only sharp edges and unspoken challenges.
"Then I suggest you take your own advice, Sheriff," he said. "You never know when those walls will come crashing down. And when they do? Try not to get crushed beneath them."
Hartshorne took a step forward, his entire frame tensed like a coiled spring, but before the tension could snap, Frank quickly stepped between them, one hand raised.
"That's enough," he said firmly. "The kid's in my charge. I'll handle this."
The sheriff turned his sharp glare onto Frank, but after a tense pause, he nodded curtly. "See that you do." His gaze flicked back to Bastion, colder than ever. "And keep him on a tighter leash."
He let the words hang like a threat. "Consider this your one and only warning, boy. Next time? I'll have you confined to the precinct for the remainder of your time here."
Bastion opened his mouth, the retort already on his tongue, but Frank shot him a glare that made him bite it back.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," Hartshorne said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I have the delightful task of calling The Authority to explain why five of their agents are currently in desperate need of medical attention." He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "Because apparently, I have nothing better to do with my damned day."
The sheriff turned on his heel, his coat flaring behind him as he strode toward the AEGIS vehicles. Some of the riot-clad guards remained behind, already moving to tend to the wounded enforcers—including Goras, who still lay crumpled in a heap.
The tension hung heavy in the air as the sheriff and his men pulled away, but Bastion barely seemed to notice. His smirk was gone now, his jaw tight as he exhaled sharply.
Frank sighed. "You really are a pain in the ass, aren't you?"