For the first time in years, the wooden walls of the Chief's office inside Caerleon's precinct felt suffocating. Smoke clung to the low ceiling like a shroud, the heavy scent of tobacco woven with the sharp burn of whiskey. Lamar sat behind his desk, a mountain of spent cigars in the ashtray and two half-empty bottles of his finest scotch abandoned nearby. Their pedigree meant little to him now.
Norsefire had seized the city. Airships stalled, roads sealed, communication lines severed. No word entered or left Caerleon without his permission. The people, stubborn as they were at first, had bent the knee—they always did.
The truncheon was a timeless language, and pain its most fluent dialect. Rebellion wilted under it. Order, Lamar mused as he drew on his cigar, was never truly built on consent—only on fear well-managed.
Yet still, a voice gnawed at the back of his mind, one he could no longer ignore. Despite the law's letter sitting firmly in his favor, despite all the precedents he himself had carved into Avalon's bones, the silence from the Tower had been deafening. No word from his Executioners. No messages from the higher Guardians. Not even the pretense of allegiance.
Which could only mean one thing.
They feared the Regent more than they feared him.
He ground the thought under his teeth like a stone, setting his still smoldering cigar back into the crystal tray with a faint hiss of ash. His hand wrapped around his glass, swirling the thin, melted whiskey before downing it in one grimace.
No matter, he thought. Caerleon was under his heel. Once Asriel Valerian and Nemesis were dealt with, he would clean the blood from the streets, spin the tale, and offer the Council the only thing they had ever cared for: results.
And like the mangy curs they were, they would accept. They always did.
The soft beeping of the communication orb upon his desk drew Lamar's attention. With a furrow of his brow, he tapped it once, and the small sphere floated upward, casting an emerald screen into the air before him. The image that formed was crisp—a stone-walled office lined with towering shelves of books and split by stout pillars. A narrow staircase curled up towards an unseen second floor.
At the heart of it sat a dark, oaken desk, behind which an older man rested, fingers steepled in front of him. He wore a robe of royal blue trimmed with snow-white embroidery, the intricate patterns flowing like rivers across the fine fabric. His white beard was long, immaculately groomed, and glasses of thin, half-moon silver perched low upon his nose, sharpening the intensity of the piercing blue eyes that peered over them.
"Director Burgess," Headmaster Blaise said coolly, his tone devoid of the usual warmth. His sharp gaze gave even less away. "Lamar."
"Blaise," Lamar drawled, leaning back in his chair with the ease of an old wolf sizing up familiar prey. "It's been a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"On any other day, old friend, I might have indulged you in a touch of pleasantry," Blaise replied. "Regrettably, today is not such a day." He leaned forward slightly, the emerald glow casting deep shadows across his features. "And I suspect you know well enough why I've called."
A flicker of amusement ghosted across Lamar's mouth, barely a smirk. "As a matter of fact, I do," he said. "And to spare us both the effort, the answer is no."
Blaise's jaw set. "Lamar, we had an understanding," he said. "You were granted the freedom to conduct your duties, to exercise your authority, provided it remained within the confines of the law. But my students," he enunciated the words with deliberate weight, "were to remain off-limits."
He drew a slow, sharp breath, eyes narrowing further.
"As per the Excalibur Accords to which both parties agreed and signed, witnessed in full by the Wizarding Council and the Three Bodies—all Tower-related matters concerning students of Excalibur are to be conducted in the presence of representatives from both factions: namely, the headmaster or a designated Professor in my absence, and an Adjudicator," Blaise said evenly.
"By the overreach and extreme conduct of your sanctioned enforcers, you have not only overstepped your authority, you have violated the Accords… and, more disgracefully, broken your word."
"Your students, old friend, chose to attack officers of the Tower," Lamar said, plucking up his half-smoked cigar and drawing a long, indulgent breath from it. He exhaled a thick plume of smoke into the air, letting it curl lazily toward the ceiling. "My men merely responded in kind. My duty, as ever, is to stamp out insurrection wherever it festers—regardless of age, affiliation, or pedigree."
Blaise's fingers tightened, his knuckles paling. "I find it difficult to believe that mere children posed any credible threat to your soldiers, who seem to have come dressed for war rather than peace." His tone hardened. "And I have heard rather disturbing accounts filtering from Caerleon—homes broken into under the cover of darkness, entire families black-bagged and carted off to undisclosed locations. No trials. No charges. Only silence."
"A necessary precaution," Lamar replied smoothly, tapping ash into the crystal tray with a practiced flick. "You know how rebellion spreads, Blaise. It takes but a whisper, a rumor passed unchecked, and the next moment you have an inferno. You of all people should remember Camelot."
"You and I seem to remember Camelot rather differently, Lamar," Blaise said coldly. "I recall more brutality and bloodshed from the Tower's hand than from any so-called rebels. And yes, once, I placed my trust in you. I offered you the benefit of the doubt." His hands uncurled before him. "But that time has long passed. You may hold the title of Director, but I am Headmaster of Excalibur. My first duty is not to your Tower—but to the sanctity of this school, and the safety of my students."
Blaise drew a slow breath, measured and deep. "And as Headmaster, I am fully within my right to do whatever is necessary to safeguard them." His words softened slightly, though the weight behind it remained. "But here, now, I ask you—as a friend—return them to me, safe and unharmed."
There was a pause. Then Lamar's lip curled into a sneer.
"Or what?" he spat.
Blaise's gaze sharpened, but he said nothing. Lamar chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "You always were insufferable, Blaise. Even back in our days at Excalibur. The Head Prefect, Visionary of Aecor, the perfect scholar everyone fawned over." His eyes narrowed. "But you never once had to make the hard choices, did you? You stayed buried in your books whilst men like Winston and I dirtied our hands. We spilled blood to secure a future you were too craven to fight for."
He stubbed out his cigar with a grinding motion, the acrid smell filling the room.
"I don't know what rot you've been planting in these brats since you donned those Headmaster's robes," Lamar continued, "but clearly you've led them to believe they need not respect the natural order. That they may stand shoulder to shoulder with the Tower."
His face twisted into something dark and unrecognizable. "Well, if they will not respect us, then by the Gods, they will learn to fear us!"
Blaise exhaled sharply, his expression like stone.
"People should not live in fear of their government, Lamar," he said. "Governments should fear their people. You have forgotten that the chair you now warm was meant to serve the people—not to rule over them."
The two men stared at one another, the distance between them stretched taut like a drawn bow, neither willing to yield.
"Nevertheless, Blaise, my answer is final," Lamar said, his smirk now fully on display. "Your students remain in my custody, and they shall be processed accordingly." The remnants of smoke from his snuffed-out cigar coiled around him like a serpent. "And when this is over, I'll see to it that each and every one of them spends a decade in chains at Revel's End. Perhaps then, they'll learn that defiance is but the folly of fools."
Blaise closed his eyes briefly before fixing Lamar with a measured stare. "Is that truly your final answer, old friend?"
Lamar chuckled, low and scornful. "It's rather charming, Blaise, this pretence you cling to," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "You forget yourself. I have three hundred soldiers across Caerleon—trained, armed, and loyal. And what have you? A handful of weathered professors, relics of times long past, and children barely old enough to hold a wand steady." His smile sharpened. "And you—a senile old man still clinging to the delusions of his youth."
He leaned back, a picture of smug satisfaction. "Face facts, Blaise. I hold every card. If you so much as twitch against me, I shall ensure that there won't be a single stone left standing at your precious Academy."
Blaise's gaze narrowed; his expression unflinching. "Then, that is your prerogative," he said coolly. "But you, Lamar—you know precisely who I am. You know what I am capable of." His voice lowered to a dangerous calm. "And did you truly think that a man of my caliber would surround himself with those of lesser mettle?"
A soft smile, cold as steel, curled upon Blaise's lips.
"As I have said—it is my duty to ensure the safety of my students. No matter the cost."
He paused, letting the words hang heavily in the smoke-filled air.
"And so, I shall leave you with this… Good luck."
Without waiting for a reply, Blaise severed the connection. The emerald projection blinked into nothingness, and the communication orb drifted silently back to its cradle on the desk. Lamar's expression darkened, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he lowered one arm to the chair's armrest, his fingers clamping down with such force that the old leather groaned beneath the pressure. With his other hand, he raked his fingers through his greying hair, slicking it back in one smooth motion—less to tidy it, more to control the fury simmering beneath the surface.
"Very well then, you stubborn old fool," he muttered through gritted teeth. "If this is the path you've chosen..."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk.
"Then let the games begin."
****
As the screen dissipated, Headmaster Blaise's gaze swept the room, settling upon the dozen individuals gathered before him. To his right stood the professors, their expressions dark and grim. Eyes narrowed, shoulders squared, the weight of the conversation they had overheard burning behind their stares. To his left, the six Visionaries, each adorned in the cloaks of their respective Houses—symbols of the Academy's proudest traditions.
Genji and Artoria stood rigid, hands resting upon the hilts of their blades, battle-hardened resolve etched into every line of their faces. Arthur exhaled sharply, tension clinging to him like a second skin. The remaining three, cloaked more heavily in shadow, shared no words, but even the stillness around them seemed to hum with growing fire.
Amongst them stood Lucian Graymark, Head Prefect, who quietly adjusted his glasses higher upon the bridge of his nose, his posture as composed as ever.
Blaise rose fully to his feet.
"I want the Academy locked down. Effective immediately, all lessons are suspended. Students are to be confined to their respective dormitories after curfew. They may leave only for meals and brief recreation—nothing more. They are to remain within Academy grounds at all times."
His gaze settled firmly on the Prefect.
"I trust I may rely on you and your fellow prefects, Mister Graymark?"
Lucian inclined his head. "Yes, Headmaster. You have my word."
Blaise turned then to the Visionaries, his expression softening only slightly.
"As for you," he said, "I owe you an apology. Once again, I have allowed darkness to creep too close to these walls. I now have no choice but to call upon your strength. Do what needs to be done."
The Visionaries exchanged a brief look among themselves before nodding solemnly. Genji, Artoria, Arthur—all of them gave the slightest nod, a warrior's silent promise.
As they turned to leave, Blaise's voice halted them mid-step.
"Oh," he added, almost lightly, though the weight behind his words was unmistakable, "and feel free to enlist your... extracurricular acquaintances. You'll need every ally you can muster."
Arthur glanced over his shoulder, a flicker of surprise breaking across his face. But then, like the others, a slow, dangerous smirk tugged at his lips before he followed the others from the room.
Blaise's gaze returned to the professors — Lagduf, Agatha, Lotho, Serfence, Workner, Rasputin, Kyar, and Ryan.
"You are now the last line of defense this Academy has," Blaise said quietly. "I am placing the safety of every student under your charge. You know what must be done."
There was a heavy pause before Serfence folded his arms across his chest.
"Forgive me, Headmaster," he said, "but you are well aware that what you've done tonight amounts to a declaration of war against Lamar Burgess, and by extension the Clock Tower."
"And," Workner added grimly, his brows furrowed, "for all our pride and skill, we are sorely outnumbered."
Blaise exhaled softly, his hands folding behind his back. "I am quite aware," he said, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. "But history has never been made by those who waited for favorable odds."
"So, what exactly are we talking about here?" Ryan drawled, one hand idly stroking Professor Kyar's fluffy tiger tail as though she were a plush toy. The gesture drew a few strange looks from the others, though the large tigress merely flicked her ear in mild amusement, clearly unbothered.
"If we're truly going to war," Ryan continued, "then I believe we're going to need specifics."
"The usual," Professor Lagduf rumbled, rubbing his heavy chin thoughtfully. The orc's gaze was distant, yet sharp. "I've only heard tales of Norsefire in my time. If they are anything like the stories, we must assume they'll be equipped with the finest arms and the most brutal of tactics." A grim smile touched his lips. "It's been years since I've lifted a war hammer in earnest… but for my students, I'd shatter the rust from my bones gladly."
"As much as I relish a good scrap," Kyar added, crossing her arms, "I'm afraid I have to agree with Workner." Her gaze swept across the room. "They have the numbers. We have precious few. And so long as Burgess keeps Caerleon under a communications blackout, there'll be no help from Camelot. Not while Martial Law gives him full authority."
Blaise removed his glasses, polishing them with a handkerchief. His movements were measured, almost contemplative.
"Your concerns are noted, all of you," he said, sliding the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. "I had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that Lamar would see reason. I underestimated just how far my old friend had fallen."
He allowed the admission to hang in the air a moment before continuing.
"One of my many faults, I fear. I search for the good in others until I blind myself to their trespasses." His lips pressed into a thin line. "Much like I once did with Mister Creedy."
He gave a brief, apologetic glance toward Professors Workner and Serfence, who averted their eyes, guilt and regret flickering across their faces.
"But we are no longer treading familiar ground," Blaise said. "In all my years, I have never witnessed such blatant perversion of power by those sworn to protect us. When peacekeepers become tyrants, it falls to those of conscience to act."
"My heart weeps for Caerleon. But my duty… our duty is to the students." He drew a steady breath. "That being said, the course I propose is treasonous by the Tower's law. If any amongst you cannot, or will not, join me, you may leave now. No shame shall be laid at your feet."
He left the invitation open, allowing silence to stretch heavy across the office.
But none moved.
Not Lagduf, nor Workner, nor even Kyar. Some straightened their backs with renewed resolve. Others smiled faintly, as though welcoming the burden.
Professor Ryan flashed a casual smirk.
"Well then, looks like we're all in," he said lightly, dusting off his hands. "It'd be rude to let the kiddies fight all the battles themselves, wouldn't it?"
A ripple of low laughter passed among them, brief but genuine—a spark of camaraderie amid the looming storm.
"When you offered me position, Headmaster, I knew of risks involved," Professor Rasputin said. "But I came here willingly... and it would shame me to leave you now."
He placed a heavy hand against his chest, bowing his head slightly in a show of respect and ironclad loyalty.
"Excalibur has been my home for centuries, Blaise," Professor Duchannes said. "We've survived worse. We will endure."
Professor Eridan and Professor Lotho nodded in silent agreement; their faces set with quiet determination.
Blaise allowed himself a small smile. "Very well. Our first priority is securing the grounds. I want all of you to take shifts patrolling the perimeter. Let it be made perfectly clear—no Tower personnel, especially Norsefire, are to set foot within these halls without my express permission."
"Should you encounter any unsanctioned presence upon academy grounds, you are fully entitled to request their immediate departure." He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "However, if they reject diplomacy and opt for hostility instead… you are to respond with whatever means are required. And I do mean whatever necessary."
The Professors gave a collective nod before turning to leave, a newfound sense of purpose carried in their steps.
"Professor Serfence, Ashford, a word if you please," Blaise called out, halting the two men just as Ryan reluctantly let go of Professor Kyar's tail, earning a few bemused glances. As the others exited and the heavy oak doors closed behind them, Serfence and Ryan approached the desk.
Blaise steepled his fingers. "It's come to my attention that Mayor Romanda is being held under house arrest by Tower forces at her residence," he said quietly. "I would like the two of you to extend her an invitation to Excalibur Academy."
Serfence raised a single eyebrow. "By invitation, I assume you mean extracting her from Tower custody."
"Well, jailbreak's a first for me," Ryan said brightly, flashing a grin. "But I'll try anything once."
"With all due respect, Headmaster," Serfence said with a sideways glare at Ryan, "I am more than capable of handling this alone. There's no need to burden myself with Professor Ashford."
"I have no doubt of your capabilities, Serfence," Blaise replied. "However, I believe Professor Ashford's particular talents may prove most... complementary. And besides," Blaise added with a glint in his eye, "it's about time you two learned to bond. You have far more in common than you realize."
Serfence rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath.
Ryan bumped his shoulder lightly against Serfence's, grinning as the man stiffened in irritation.
"Come on, lighten up," he said. "Could be fun. I always figured I'd end up touring the mayor's mansion one way or another. Might as well make it an adventure."
"Then it's settled," Blaise said, settling back into his chair with finality. "Bring her back safe and sound. I trust you both to see it done."
Serfence gave a terse nod, Ryan offering a casual salute before they turned to leave.
"And Professor Ashford," Blaise called after him.
Ryan glanced over his shoulder.
"Do what you do best."
Ryan smirked. "Wouldn't dream of anything less, sir."
With that, they disappeared through the door, leaving the headmaster alone once more. Blaise removed his glasses, leaning back in his chair as he ran a weary hand down his face. He allowed a few minutes to pass in silence before tapping the communication orb atop his desk. It floated gently into the air, casting a soft glow as it formed a screen.
Seconds ticked by before the face of a gentleman, similar in age, materialized on the screen — sharp-suited, composed, his fingers steepled thoughtfully before him.
"I was wondering when you might call," the man said with a faint smile. "It's been a fair while, Blaise."
"Winston," Blaise greeted with a nod. "I believe it's time we had a conversation."
There was a pause as Winston's expression tightened slightly.
"About Lamar?"
Blaise nodded, slowly.
"About Lamar."
****
The amber rays of the setting sun slipped through the gauzy white curtains of the Hospital Wing, painting Salazar's room in hues of gold and deep orange. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light, swirling in slow, ghostlike patterns above the polished floor. The young man sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his fingers deftly fastening the small, stubborn buttons of his shirt with mechanical precision, each one tinged with a quiet frustration.
After nearly a week trapped within these sterile walls, Doctor Adani had finally declared him fit to leave. To Salazar, the pronouncement was long overdue. The days had bled together into a colorless smear of tasteless broths, muted conversation, and the endless, suffocating stillness of convalescence. The walls had seemed to press closer with each passing hour, the ceiling lower, the air heavier.
Now, even the simple thought of returning to the Great Hall—of sinking his teeth into seared meats, rich stews, and sweet pies—made his stomach growl in impatient longing.
Yet despite the slow decay of his patience, Salazar had not allowed himself to become blind to the world beyond Excalibur's stone walls. The city of Caerleon had become a rotting carcass, its streets given over to the Director's wolves. Through Nirah and her kin, slithering unseen across the city's alleys and eaves, Salazar had kept vigil. The serpents' silent eyes had fed him scenes of brutality—bodies bruised and broken; families torn apart under the jeering laughter of Norsefire agents.
The violence in the open was savage enough; but it was the horrors behind closed doors—the muffled screams, the trembling silences—that curdled his blood most. A sickness had seeped into the city's bones, one that no blade or spell alone could cleanse. And at the festering center of it all, Sheriff George Hartshorne presided like a butcher over a slaughterhouse.
Every shattered door, every bloodstained cobblestone, bore his invisible hand. Salazar's plan had been clear from the start: isolate the Sheriff, pry loose the link to the true architect of the chaos—Director Burgess himself. A serpent's bite, quick and merciless, and both tyrants would crumple. Two less monsters in the world. Justice for Godric. For Raine. For every voice silenced by fear.
"So much for the perfect plan," Salazar muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders back to work the stiffness from his muscles. "No plan survives first contact... or maybe I was just a fool to hope it would."
The door to his room crashed open with a bang, rattling the windows in their frames. Salazar's gaze snapped sharply toward it, his body tensing instinctively. Rowena stood in the doorway, her chest heaving, strands of dark hair plastered to her sweat-slicked forehead. The color had drained from her face, leaving her pale as parchment.
"Rowena, my dear, you look an absolute fright," Salazar drawled, finishing the last button of his shirt without haste. "What's the matter?"
"Salazar," she gasped, the words tumbling from her lips in broken pieces. "They have her—they took her!"
He was at her side in a heartbeat, crossing the room in three strides and gripping her by the arms, feeling the tremble in her slender frame. "Calm yourself. Breathe. Who's been taken?"
"Helena!" Rowena choked out. "Those Norsefire men. We were walking to Spindles and Spells when they… they arrested her. Dragged her off—I couldn't stop them!"
For a heartbeat, Salazar froze, stunned into motionlessness. Then, slowly, his expression hardened, his jaw tightening as a dangerous anger settled behind his eyes.
"Have you spoken to Headmaster Blaise? The Professors?" he demanded, the air around him seeming to darken.
Rowena nodded rapidly. "I just came from the headmaster's office—Professor Workner said not to panic, that they're 'looking into it'." Her voice cracked, her fists clenching helplessly at her sides. "But I can't just wait around, Salazar! We have to do something!"
"And we shall," Salazar said, drawing in a deep, anchoring breath. "Don't you worry about Helena. I'll find her, and I'll bring her back."
"You?" Rowena's sapphire eyes widened, brimming with fear. "Then, I'm coming with you!"
"No," Salazar said firmly, his grip tightening just slightly before he released her. "I need you to find Helga. She's likely still in Caerleon, and while she's formidable, even she can't stand alone against overwhelming numbers. Warn her, bring her back if you can."
"But what about you?" Rowena whispered. "You can't face them all alone."
A familiar smirk ghosted across Salazar's lips— the same expression that had unnerved enemies and reassured allies alike.
"My dear..." he said, reaching for his coat and slinging it over his shoulders with practiced ease, "I'm never alone."
He brushed past Rowena without another word, his boots striking the stone floor in sharp, deliberate beats, each one a drum of his rising fury. The air in the corridor seemed thinner, pressing in around him as he wove through the gathering of patients and healers. Faces blurred to nothing — no one mattered but the path ahead. His coat billowed in his wake, a banner of dark determination as he strode faster, his hands curling unconsciously into fists.
A knot of rage twisted tighter in his gut with every step.
Helena.
They had rarely agreed, their meetings often devolving into sharp remarks and barbed smiles. A petty, childish part of him had once taken pleasure in her indignation, finding amusement in every pointed jab that drew her scowl. But none of that mattered now.
What gnawed at him, what left a sour taste in his mouth, was the thought of her frightened, alone, at the mercy of Norsefire's thugs. Fear gripped him—a raw, unwelcome thing—and beneath it, something colder, harder: a growing, merciless rage that would not be denied.
He would find her. And woe to anyone who stood in his way.
A sharp hiss cut through the corridor's heavy silence.
Salazar's head snapped up, his emerald gaze locking onto Nirah, coiled high on a hanging torch sconce, her scales flashing like molten silver in the dying light.
"Gather the others," Salazar commanded with a lethal rasp. "Scour Caerleon. Leave no stone unturned."
Nirah's hiss carried like a whisper of death as she slipped away, vanishing into the shadowed recesses of the ceiling. Salazar pressed onward, slamming his shoulder into the heavy Hospital Wing doors as he burst through them and into the chill of the approaching night within the old corridors.
The twilight swallowed him whole—through the windows a sky bruised purple and gold stretching overhead, the cool breeze biting at his cheeks. He drew in a breath, the scent of rain-soaked stone and distant fires filling his lungs.
He halted for a heartbeat, staring out of the window over the darkened city sprawling before him. His fingers flexed at his sides, aching for action. A smirk ghosted across his lips, hollow and cold.
"As for me," he muttered to the empty courtyard. "I've just a few things to collect... and an old friend to wake."
And without another glance behind him, Salazar disappeared down the corridor, a blade of will sharpened for blood and retribution.