Time stretched thin, drawn taut as a wire, as Salazar remained within the shadows and watched, every detail fixing itself into his awareness with a clarity that left nothing unaccounted for. Sweat carved slow, agonizing paths down the men's temples, catching the dim light before falling from their jaws, while their fingers tightened and loosened around their wands in restless, uneven rhythms, each movement betraying how close they stood to losing what little control they had left.
The boy stood before them with an ease that did not belong in a moment like this, the pistol resting low against his belt, his posture relaxed in a way that spoke not of uncertainty, but of something far more dangerous. There was no tension in him, no wasted motion, only a quiet certainty that settled into the space around him and held it there.
Salazar recognized it at once.
He had seen it too many times to mistake it.
The subtle signs revealed themselves without effort, the slight twitch at the corner of an eye, the breath that caught just a fraction too long, the tightening of a throat as someone forced courage back into themselves where it no longer held. It was always the same, that fragile, narrowing space between restraint and collapse, where everything balanced on a single decision that had yet to be made.
He had stood in that space before.
He knew exactly how it ended.
As he watched, that understanding settled into something cold and absolute. Neither side was going to yield. There would be no retreat, no compromise, no moment of reconsideration that would pull this back from the edge it had already crossed.
Then the bells rang.
Excalibur clock tower broke the silence with a heavy, brassy toll that rolled through the square like a funeral knell, the distant sound pressing into the air, into stone, into bone, until it seemed to settle within the very bodies of those who heard it. It carried an inescapable weight, and as it echoed outward, it sent a visible tremor through the men, their composure fracturing further beneath its resonance.
The men moved as one, panic snapping into action.
"Avada—!"
Sickly green light surged at the tips of their wands, a color Salazar knew too well, a shade that had carved itself into memory across battlefields he had never forgotten.
The boy's pistol rose in the same instant.
The hammer fell.
The shot broke the air.
But the bullet did not travel alone.
The faerie beside him surged forward, her form collapsing into light, her body unraveling into a brilliant streak that crossed the distance in a heartbeat. She met the round mid-flight, and in that fleeting instant, sapphire energy flared outward, swallowing metal and reshaping it into something far more dangerous.
Magic and steel fused.
Then it was unleashed.
The projectile tore free, no longer bound by any natural path, its movement bending, snapping, changing direction with impossible precision as though guided by will alone. It struck the first man and did not slow, the impact ripping through him with violent force before it turned, carving its way through the next, and the next, each strike tearing bodies apart in bursts of bone and blood.
There was no rhythm to it, no pattern to follow, only devastation.
Limbs were severed where they stood, bodies collapsing as the round moved between them, cutting through flesh with brutal accuracy, the sound of each impact sharp, wet, and final. Screams broke loose and died just as quickly, swallowed by the chaos as the square filled with motion and ruin.
And then, just as suddenly, it ended.
The force dissipated, the light collapsing back into nothing, leaving only the aftermath behind. Five bodies lay scattered across the stone, broken beyond recognition, the ground beneath them darkening as it drank in what had been spilled. The air held the echo of their cries, lingering for a moment longer before fading into silence.
Only one man remained standing.
The older one.
He remained where he stood, surrounded by what was left of his companions, his gaze fixed on the ruin as though his mind had yet to accept what his eyes had already seen. The distant bells continued to toll overhead, each heavy note rolling through the square and settling into the silence that followed, a silence broken only by the faint hiss of cooling stone and the distant murmur of the city beyond, indifferent to what had just unfolded.
Logan stepped forward.
His boots brushed against the cobblestones with a quiet scrape as he closed the distance, moving through the spreading pools of blood without pause, as though it were nothing more than rainwater left behind after a passing storm. The metallic scent hung thick in the air, clinging to every breath, settling at the back of the throat in a way that could not be ignored.
Beside him, the chained captives had folded inward, bodies drawn tight, heads bowed as their hands pressed hard against their ears in a futile attempt to shut out what they had just witnessed. The echoes lingered regardless, the memory of torn flesh, of bone giving way, of blood striking stone with a sound that refused to leave them.
The older therian girl held the younger one close, her arms wrapped around her with unyielding force, as though she could shield her from something that had already happened. Both had their eyes shut tight, their bodies trembling, clinging to one another in the fragile hope that if they did not look, it might somehow lessen what had been done.
"Keep 'em closed, sweetheart," he said as he passed, the words softened just enough to carry through the tremor in the air. "You don't wanna see this. It'll stay with you."
The older man stumbled back, a fractured sound tearing from him as his gaze snapped between Logan and the remains of his companions. What lay scattered across the stone no longer resembled the men he had stood beside moments ago, their bodies broken, their expressions locked in that instant where terror had claimed them. His legs gave way beneath him. He tripped over himself, his wand slipping free and clattering uselessly across the ground before he hit the stone hard, the impact driving the breath from his chest.
He landed in the blood.
It soaked through him at once, dark and warm, his hands sliding as he tried to push himself away, scrambling backward in a blind panic that sent him slipping and dragging through what had been left behind. His voice broke as he screamed, the sound thin and unraveling, stripped of whatever control he had clung to before.
"How—how did you—?" The words came apart, collapsing into themselves, his hand lifting in a trembling attempt to point, though the motion faltered, his fingers shaking too violently to hold steady. "You don't even know what you've—" His breath hitched, the sentence dying in his throat. "You son of a bitch!"
The pistol gave a dry, mechanical click as Logan worked it open, the spent casing tumbling free and striking the stone before disappearing into the darkened pool at his feet. Nariko reformed at his side in a shimmer of sapphire blue, her small form coalescing from drifting light, wings beating in a soft, steady rhythm as she hovered just off his shoulder, the glow around her settling now that the violence had passed.
"Heaven or hell," Logan said as he slid a fresh round into place, the brass catching what little light remained before he snapped the action closed, "we all answer for what we do."
The hammer came back with a solid click.
"Where we end up once the breath leaves us," he continued, "that's on Him."
His gaze never left the man before him, who sat trembling in the blood of his own comrades, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide and unfocused as the weight of what remained pressed down on him.
"But God ain't in the business of punishin' the wicked while they're still breathin'," Logan went on, the barrel lifting just enough to settle the matter. "That part falls to men like me."
His finger settled around the trigger, steady, without the slightest tremor.
"Pops always told me to leave the old ones for last," Logan said. "Said there's somethin' about a man who's had all them years to set himself right and still chose not to, somethin' worth seein' when it finally catches up to him."
He tilted his head, studying him, giving him the space to understand exactly where this was headed.
"By then, they know," he went on. "Know there ain't no more time left to fix it, no more chances to turn back, and that whatever's waitin' on the other side's already got their name on it."
A faint pause followed, the moment stretching just long enough to settle into the man's bones.
"So, tell me, old timer," Logan added, his gaze holding firm, "you gonna sit there and face the devil like a real man?" His grip tightened just slightly. "Or you gonna run off screamin', pissin' yourself like the rest of 'em?"
The older man broke.
His body gave way to a violent tremor, control slipping from him entirely before a raw, tearing scream ripped loose from his throat. He scrambled upright, boots skidding against blood-slick stone as he fought for footing, nearly collapsing again before he caught himself and bolted, fleeing toward the nearest exit with all the desperation of a man who had already seen the end waiting for him.
Logan watched him go, his gaze tracking the man's stumbling flight, a sharp breath leaving him as he gave a small, dismissive shake of his head. Beside him, Nariko folded her arms, her expression mirroring the same quiet disappointment, the soft chime of her presence ringing faintly as the moment stretched.
From the shadows, Salazar shifted, his attention snapping toward the fleeing figure, instinct already pulling him forward, ready to cut him down before he could make it beyond the square.
Logan raised his gun.
The motion was enough.
Salazar stilled.
For a brief moment, Logan stood there with his head lowered, his eyes closed, the pistol lifted and held steady, not with haste, but with something that carried the weight of ritual rather than reflex.
"I do not kill with my gun," he said, the words leaving him in a quiet murmur, closer to a prayer than a declaration.
The weapon responded.
Runes ignited along the length of the obsidian barrel, ancient markings coming alive in a deep sapphire glow that spread across its surface, light building beneath the metal as something older stirred within it.
"He who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father."
His finger tightened.
The shot broke the silence.
The weapon thundered, fire erupting from the barrel as the round tore free, its passage carving through the air with violent force before it struck the stone ahead. The wall shattered on impact, splintering outward as fragments of rock and dust exploded into the square, the force of it ripping through the structure as though it had never been meant to withstand such a strike.
****
The old man ran until his breath began to tear at his throat, each step driving pain through his legs as the strain built and threatened to buckle him where he stood, yet he forced himself onward, shoving past startled passersby who staggered under the force of his panic, their protests rising in sharp bursts of anger and confusion before faltering the moment they caught sight of the blood smeared across him, dark and unmistakable, clinging to his clothes and skin in a way that silenced even the boldest of them.
He did not slow, not even for a heartbeat, his breathing coming in broken, uneven pulls as desperation tightened around his chest, his voice caught somewhere between a strangled gasp and a sob, while tears traced fresh paths down his face, drawn not from pain, but from a fear that had already settled too deep to be denied, his heart hammering against his ribs with frantic urgency, as though it might tear free if it beat hard enough.
The images would not release him.
They circled endlessly behind his eyes, relentless in their clarity, the sight of his companions torn apart replaying in brutal detail, flesh splitting open, bone breaking beneath impossible force, screams rising and dying within the same breath, their faces frozen, their eyes wide and fixed, caught forever in the instant they understood they were already dead.
That boy was no human.
He was a demon sent from the depths of whatever hell that spawned him, something that did not hesitate or falter, something that moved with a certainty that stripped away any illusion of a fight, for they had barely managed to raise their wands before it began, before they were reduced to pieces scattered across stone, and in all his years within the Tower, in all the violence he had witnessed and taken part in, he had never seen anything that came close to this.
There had been no chance.
Still, he ran, the streets twisting around him, time dissolving into distance as he chased the only thing that mattered, the growing space between himself and the square, between himself and whatever waited there, until at last, against instinct, against reason, he glanced back over his shoulder.
The square was gone, swallowed by the maze of buildings and narrow streets that now lay between them, and for the first time since he fled, something loosened within him, fragile and uncertain, but enough to let relief seep in, enough for the edge of a disbelieving smile to pull at his lips as he convinced himself, however briefly, that he had made it, that distance had done what he could not.
There was no way that boy could reach him now, not through this, not with walls and turns and the weight of the city standing in the way.
Then he heard it.
A sharp, cutting whistle carried through the air, followed by the violent crack of stone giving way and the splintering burst of glass, the sound arriving a fraction before understanding, and as he turned back, instinct dragging his gaze forward, the wall behind him exploded outward in a violent eruption of debris.
His eyes widened, the moment stretching just long enough for terror to take hold, though not long enough for him to act.
The force struck him in the next instant, his upper body obliterated in a single, devastating burst, flesh and bone scattering across the cobblestones in a wide arc as though his form had simply come undone, his limbs torn free and cast aside with brutal finality, leaving nothing intact where he had stood.
What remained fell in pieces.
His head struck the ground and rolled, turning once, twice, before coming to rest, his vision catching a fractured glimpse of what was left of him, the world already dimming at the edges as the last of his awareness slipped away.
The last thing he heard was the distant, rising scream of those who had witnessed it.
Then there was nothing.
****
"I kill with my heart," he finished, drawing in a measured breath before letting it ease out of him, the last trace of that earlier stillness settling back into place.
He worked the pistol open in one smooth motion, the spent casing flicking free with a dull metallic clink before he slid a fresh round into the chamber before the weapon snapped shut. Without ceremony, he returned it to the leather holster tucked beneath his left arm, the motion practiced, unhurried, as though the violence that had just passed required no further acknowledgment.
Then he moved.
Logan crossed the square at an easy pace, stepping through what remained of the men as though it were little more than refuse, his boots brushing against blood-slick stone without hesitation. He crouched beside one of the bodies, reaching down with quiet efficiency before pulling free a ring of keys, giving it a short shake to clear what clung to it, the metal chiming faintly as it settled in his hand.
When he rose, his gaze shifted back to the captives, lingering for a moment before settling on the older therian girl.
"Get them off," he said, tossing the keys toward her.
She caught them instinctively, her hands tightening around the ring as though it might vanish if she did not hold it firmly enough.
"Clean 'em up and get 'em home," he went on, his tone steady, leaving little room for hesitation. "After that, head straight to the precinct and tell 'em exactly what happened here. Don't stop for anyone in gray on the way. There's a chance they're in on it."
He paused briefly, as if considering whether to leave it there, before adding, "And if they start askin' questions about who did this, you tell 'em to take it up with the Inquisition. I ain't exactly a stranger."
The girl looked down at the keys in her hand, her vision blurring as she fought back the tears that threatened to fall, the weight of what had just been placed into her grasp settling in all at once.
"Thank you," she managed. "Truly… thank you."
Logan tipped the brim of his Stetson in quiet acknowledgment, though his attention had already begun to shift.
As she turned to the chains and began working at the locks, Logan's head snapped toward one of the other entrances, his body reacting a fraction before conscious thought could follow. In a single, fluid motion, the pistol cleared the holster, the hammer drawn back as the barrel lifted, steady and precise.
Nariko hovered at his side, her form tightening, the faint glow around her sharpening as she matched his focus.
"If you're plannin' on gettin' the jump on me," Logan said, his gaze narrowing into the shadowed opening, "you're gonna need to do a whole lot better than that."
The muzzle held firm.
"So why don't you come on out," he added, "before I decide to drag out what's left of your rottin' carcass myself."
Salazar stepped out from the shadows and into the lamplight, his hands raised in a clear, unthreatening gesture, his posture composed, measured, as though the tension that still lingered in the square did not press upon him in the slightest.
"Easy now," he said, his gaze settling on Logan without challenge. "I am no foe."
The obsidian spears drifted at his side, suspended in the air with quiet intent, and Logan's attention flicked to them, his brow lifting just a fraction at the sight. Salazar followed that glance, tilting his head as if in acknowledgement before giving the faintest motion of his hand. The spears spun once in place, then slipped back with sudden precision, vanishing into the holsters along his back.
"That should suffice," Salazar added, lowering his hands slightly, though not fully. "If you'd be so kind."
Logan held his gaze for a moment longer before easing the tension from his weapon, the hammer lowering with a soft, controlled motion before he guided the pistol back into its holster. His eyes remained fixed, steady, studying.
"You look awfully familiar," he said, his chin lifting slightly. "Wouldn't happen to be Salazar Slytherin now, would you?"
Salazar allowed his hands to fall completely, a faint smile touching his lips as he inclined his head.
"It would seem my reputation continues to travel ahead of me," he replied. "Not that I find myself particularly troubled by that."
He moved closer, his attention drifting past Logan, taking in the square in its entirety, the ruin left behind, the silence that followed, the remnants of violence still settling into the stone.
"I must say," he continued, his eyes moving across the aftermath with quiet interest, "that was a rather remarkable display. I cannot say I am familiar with the magic of what you employed."
"No magic in it," Logan answered, his gaze shifting briefly toward Nariko before returning. "Just skill."
Salazar's eyes followed that movement, settling on the faerie hovering near Logan's shoulder, her translucent wings catching the light as they moved in soft, rapid beats. For a brief moment, something unreadable passed through his expression, something subtle, before it gave way to curiosity.
"How… intriguing," he said, his focus lingering. "Nariko, was it? I cannot say I have ever seen a faerie this closely, let alone one so…" He paused, as though selecting the word carefully. "Present."
Nariko shifted, the faint glow around her flickering as she moved closer to Logan, slipping partly behind the brim of his hat, peering out from its cover rather than meeting Salazar's gaze directly.
Logan noticed.
"Can't blame you," he said, though his attention remained on Salazar. "They ain't exactly common."
He paused, his expression tightening slightly as he glanced toward Nariko again before returning his focus. "That bein' said," he added, "I ain't never seen her get this tense before."
Salazar's smile returned, though there was something restrained behind it.
"Perhaps I have that effect," he said lightly, though his eyes suggested otherwise, something sharper lingering beneath the surface.
His attention shifted past Logan once more, settling on the freed captives as they worked at the last of the chains, the weight of what had nearly been done to them still hanging in the air.
His expression hardened.
"If I am to be candid," he said, his tone steady but carrying a quiet edge, "I would have dealt with those men myself, had you not arrived when you did. There has been a noticeable rise in unsanctioned slavers operating in Avalon, let alone within the city, and they have grown far too bold in their efforts."
"Tell me about it," Logan replied, glancing back over his shoulder toward the group. "Most of 'em either got Norsefire backing 'em for muscle, or they're dabblin' in it themselves."
He folded his arms as he turned back.
"Inquisition's got their sights set on every last one of 'em," he went on. "Only problem is, the kind of work that actually gets results don't exactly come from folks playin' by the rules." His gaze settled firmly on Salazar. "But I got a feelin' you already knew that, didn't you?"
"The Congregation has hardly found itself lacking in work where that is concerned," Salazar admitted. "As much as I find the Authority distasteful in nearly every regard, one cannot deny the depth of its coffers. Though, given the nature of its trade, that is hardly surprising."
His gloved fingers tapped lightly against his hip as his gaze shifted, thoughtful but edged. "They, much like the Tower, have been stretched thin, caught between maintaining control over those they deem property and dealing with those who disrupt the order by dragging the Guild into disrepute through violations of the Ius Servitium."
Logan drew in a breath and let it out slowly, his expression settling into something more reserved.
"It ain't my place to tell a man how he ought to live," he said, though there was a quiet firmness beneath it, "even if the idea of keepin' another person as property don't sit right with me." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Law's the law. Don't mean I gotta like it, just means I gotta live with it."
"Curious," Salazar said, his attention returning to Logan with renewed interest. "We appear to be of a similar age, which leaves me wondering whether you intend to enroll at Excalibur Academy." He paused, his head tilting ever so slightly. "Or perhaps you find this line of work more to your liking."
Logan fell silent for a moment, as though weighing the thought rather than dismissing it outright.
"Can't say it ain't crossed my mind," he admitted at last, his gaze drifting briefly toward the wreckage left behind before returning. "But first things first, I gotta report in with the Inquisition, let 'em know I've handled their next batch of trouble."
He shifted his stance, turning slightly as though already preparing to leave.
"After that," he went on, "once the work starts dryin' up around here, I might just take a look at this place of yours." A faint hint of something almost resembling amusement touched his expression. "Maybe even see what this Congregation's all about."
He tipped his hat as he raised a hand in parting.
"Be seein' you, partner."
Nariko lingered for a brief moment, her gaze flicking toward Salazar, a visible shiver passing through her small form before she turned and followed after Logan without another word. Salazar watched them go, his hand rising to his chin as a slow, thoughtful smile formed.
A soft hiss stirred at the back of his mind.
"Oh, I have no doubt she noticed," he murmured quietly. "The fae have always been more perceptive than most care to admit."
His eyes lingered a moment longer on Logan's retreating figure.
"Logan Deschain," he added, the name settling with quiet certainty. "I suspect our paths will cross again, and sooner rather than later."
Only then did his attention shift back to the square. The captives, now freed, had begun to gather together, embracing one another as relief finally broke through, tears and fragile smiles mingling in equal measure as the weight of their survival settled in. The sight drew something softer from him, a quiet, fleeting warmth that touched his expression before it faded into composure once more.
"Well," he said lightly, as if to himself, "it would be rather poor form to leave them to manage on their own."
The hiss that followed carried quiet agreement.
Salazar inclined his head slightly.
"Quite right."
With that, he stepped forward, moving toward them with measured intent, the shadows parting as he left them behind.
****
Far from the restless pulse of Crossroads City, beyond the sweep of open plains and the rise of distant mountains, past lakes that stretched like mirrors beneath the sky and further still beyond the quiet, sunlit streets of Carcassonne, another morning settled gently over the D'Arc Manor.
Five days had passed since Godric and Jeanne left Stornoway, and in that time the distance had begun to feel heavier than the journey itself, as though something had been left behind that neither of them had yet found the words to name.
Within the estate's gardens, life unfolded in quiet abundance.
They sat beneath a marbled pergola, its columns smooth and pale, supporting a roof of deep sapphire tiles that caught the morning light and held it there, casting a soft, shifting glow across the space below. The air carried a sweetness drawn from the countless flowers that filled the grounds, their colors stretching across every shade imaginable, from soft pastels to richer, muted tones, each one unfamiliar yet striking in its own way.
Godric found himself drawn to them without quite realizing it.
He had seen such flora before, in books perhaps, pressed between pages or illustrated in careful ink, but never like this, never alive, never breathing in the open air where their scent could settle and linger. The gardens felt less like something cultivated and more like something gathered, as though pieces of distant lands had been brought together and allowed to take root in quiet harmony.
Around them, the soft hum of bees drifted lazily from bloom to bloom, while birds called from the branches above, their songs weaving gently through the stillness, adding to a calm that felt rare, almost undeserved after everything that had come before.
Nearby, a fountain poured steadily into a wide, stone-lined pond, its surface disturbed only by the slow, graceful movement beneath. Fish glided through the water in flashes of white, red, and gold, their colors vivid against the darker depths, their presence as foreign to Godric as the plants that surrounded them.
Lady Genavieve had called them koi.
Creatures brought from lands far beyond anything he had known, symbols, she had said, of fortune and status, of a wealth that spoke not only in coin, but in what one could afford to keep simply for beauty's sake. To Godric, who had grown up among the windswept moors of England where survival came before anything resembling comfort, such things had always belonged to another world entirely, one reserved for those born into privilege rather than those who had to carve their place into it.
Godric's gaze drifted across the table and settled on Jeanne.
They had both shed the weight of travel, trading their clan uniforms of coats and scarves for something far more at ease within the warmth of the estate. Jeanne sat in a simple white sundress that caught the morning light with quiet elegance, while Godric wore a red jacket over a plain white shirt, paired with dark navy denims that felt almost out of place amid such refinement.
Between them stood a round table, its glass surface resting atop a foundation carved from rich marble, the craftsmanship as exquisite as everything else within the gardens. The spread upon it was generous without appearing excessive, an arrangement of pastries, warm oats, neatly cut toast accompanied by small dishes of marmalade and jam, alongside butter so finely prepared it held its shape like silk. Teapots released thin streams of steam, the scent of Earl Grey mingling with the warm, buttery fragrance of croissants and danishes, creating an atmosphere that felt carefully composed rather than simply prepared.
Servants moved around them with quiet precision, refilling cups before they ran empty, replacing what had been taken without interrupting the stillness of the moment, their presence constant yet unobtrusive.
Through it all, Jeanne remained silent.
It was not unusual. Godric had come to expect it, just as Lady Genavieve had long since learned not to disturb it. There was a weight to her silence, something that lingered beneath the surface, not empty, but occupied.
Godric understood it well enough.
Jeanne was waiting.
Not for time to pass, but for herself to arrive at an answer she had not yet accepted, her thoughts caught between what she wanted and what she knew would be asked of her. This was no trivial choice, nothing so light as selecting a gown or deciding upon a destination. What lay before her was the acceptance of a place that had always been hers by birth, whether she had wished for it or not, as the heir to one of Avalon's oldest noble houses, along with everything that such a position demanded.
He lifted a piece of toast toward his mouth, a thin layer of strawberry jam spread neatly across its surface, though he never quite reached the moment of biting into it.
"Godric, may I ask you something?"
Her voice drew his attention at once.
He paused, lowering the toast back onto the gold-lined plate before him as he looked across at her, meeting her gaze as her amethyst eyes held his with quiet intent.
"Why do I get the feeling I already know what comes next?" he said, a faint trace of understanding settling into his expression.
Jeanne gave a small, almost absent shrug.
"What would you do," she asked, "if you were in my position?"
Her gaze shifted briefly, drawn toward the manor that stood just beyond the gardens, its presence looming even in the calm of the morning.
"Would you accept it?" she continued, her words softer now, though no less certain. "All of it?"
Godric did not answer at once.
He let the moment breathe, allowing the quiet of the garden to settle around them, the breeze threading gently through the branches overhead, stirring leaves that whispered against one another in a constant rhythm. His gaze drifted, not aimlessly, but with a quiet consideration, settling briefly on the guards stationed along the estate, their presence measured and unwavering, spears held firm, blades resting at their sides. For a fleeting moment, it crossed his mind how easily a wrong answer could carry weight in a place like this, how decisions made in calm settings often held consequences far beyond them.
Then he turned back to Jeanne, meeting her eyes with a steadiness that left no room for evasion.
"Honestly?" he said at last. "I'd say yes."
Jeanne drew in a breath, ready to respond, but Godric lifted a finger, not to silence her, but to ask for a moment more.
"Not for the reason you might think," he added, his tone easing as her expression softened.
His gaze shifted again, this time toward the gardens, as though the answer lay somewhere within the stillness of it all.
"When I was younger," he began, "I used to believe that if you held onto the right things strongly enough, if you fought hard enough, lived with honor, with justice, with truth, then the world would bend toward it. That good things would find good people, and that those who did wrong would eventually face what they deserved."
A faint, self-aware smile touched his lips, though it carried little warmth.
"Everything I've seen since then proved otherwise," he said, turning back to her. "It showed me how naive that was. I thought I understood how the world worked, but all I really had were stories and ideals I hadn't yet tested."
He exhaled quietly. "I fought for those ideals. Held onto them, even when it hurt. And in the end, even when I won… I still lost the things that mattered most."
"Godric…" Jeanne murmured, soft with understanding.
"I thought a sword was enough," he continued, his gaze steady, his words flowing with a clarity that came from having lived through them. "That if I stood firm, if I pushed hard enough, I could change things through force of will alone. But the world isn't that simple. It doesn't run on clean lines of right and wrong, or on stories where the hero swoops in and sets everything straight."
He gave a small shake of his head.
"It's layered. Complicated in ways I didn't want to see before. And Salazar was right about something… not every battle is fought with steel, and not every battlefield looks the same."
His eyes held hers now.
"Someone like me?" he added, tilting his head slightly. "I wouldn't last long in a court of nobles if I walked in thinking a blade could solve anything."
He paused, tapping his chin lightly as the thought settled.
"Helena once told me something Laxus said," he went on. "That you can't change the world if you don't have a seat at the table."
Godric nodded, more to himself than anything else.
"I didn't understand it then," he admitted. "But I do now. Jeanne, even the bravest warriors, even the most honorable men. All that chivalry doesn't carry as far as we were taught when it stands against titles, against nobility, against the rules of a world built on status."
His gaze sharpened, something firmer settling into it.
"As much as it sits wrong with me, as much as it still makes my blood run hot when I think about it, the truth doesn't change," he continued. "It doesn't matter how much you've done, or how much you've sacrificed. To most of the world, blood still weighs more than deeds. That's the part Salazar's always been clear about… and as much as I hate to admit it, he's right. Reality rarely aligns with what we believe it should be."
He gave a small shrug, though it carried no lightness.
"Without a title, without the authority that comes with it, I'm just a boy from the moors," he said. "Not the Lion of Ignis, not the so-called Hero of Caerleon. Just another voice that doesn't carry far enough to matter when it needs to."
His eyes drifted briefly before returning to her.
"And I learned the hard way that bureaucracy is a kind of armor no blade can cut through," he added. "If you want to stand against it, you don't break it with force. You meet it with something equal."
Jeanne watched him, uncertainty flickering across her expression.
"So… what you're saying is that a title is the only way forward?" she asked. "That it's the only way to be heard, to have your voice carry any weight at all?"
Godric leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful rather than dismissive.
"It's a blunt way of putting it," he said, "but it's not entirely wrong."
He rested his forearms lightly against the table, his tone steady as he continued.
"Power, at its core, isn't good or bad on its own. It's more like a tool," he said. "Put a blade in the hands of a bandit, and it becomes something dangerous. Put that same blade in the hands of a hero, and it becomes a tool of righteousness."
His gaze lifted, settling somewhere beyond her for a moment as his thoughts stretched wider.
"And the truth is, there are powers in this world that sit far above anything we can reach on our own," he went on. "My title carries weight, just as Salazar's and Rowena's do through blood and standing, but even that only goes so far. Beyond that, there are those who sit higher still. The Councils, both Wizarding and Kings. The Three Bodies. The noble houses that shape Avalon itself."
He gestured faintly, as though mapping it out in the air.
"Even Burgess," he added. "What made him untouchable wasn't just what he could do. It was where he sat. The authority behind him. The position that shielded him from consequences."
His gaze returned to Jeanne.
"And tell me this," he said quietly, "do you really think Asriel and the others would have accepted the power of the Sword of Damocles if they hadn't already been standing beneath that kind of authority, knowing exactly how far out of reach it put them?"
Jeanne's eyes widened slightly, the implication settling in with a weight that was difficult to ignore. Godric gave a quiet shrug, though there was little ease in it, his expression settling into something more reflective as he gathered his thoughts.
"Look, Jeanne, I can only speak from where I stand," he said. "I've always been the one who charges in headfirst, believing in truth, in justice, in what a warrior, what a hero, is meant to be."
A faint breath left him, softer now.
"My uncle Gareth made sure of that. From the moment I could walk, he drilled it into me that if I had the strength to help someone, then I had the moral obligation to do it, no matter the cost. That was the measure of a man in his eyes."
His gaze shifted slightly, not away from her, but deeper into the thought.
"Politics, etiquette, all the rules that slow things down and keep people at arm's length? I always saw it as something people used to protect themselves, or worse, to hide behind while they did things they knew wouldn't stand in the open." He exhaled. "And with Volg, that's exactly what it was."
There was a brief pause before he continued.
"When I challenged him for Raine's freedom, it wasn't as simple as stepping forward and demanding it. There were layers to it, procedures, permissions, things that could've stopped me before I even had the chance to act. And if it hadn't been for Genji Shimada…" He let the name settle. "He had what I didn't. Influence. Authority. The kind of weight that makes people listen whether they want to or not."
Godric shook his head slowly, the memory still carrying its edge.
"Standing there, knowing what needed to be done, knowing I had the strength to do it, and still feeling like I couldn't move because the world itself was in the way…" His jaw tightened slightly. "That's not something I ever want to feel again."
He looked back at her fully, grounded in something firm. "Bureaucracy shouldn't be the thing that stops someone from doing what's right," he said. "And it definitely shouldn't be what protects the ones who know they're wrong."
Jeanne's expression tightened for a brief moment before softening again, her gaze dropping to the plate before her, though the uncertainty in her amethyst eyes lingered in a way that words did not need to explain. Godric noticed it at once, a faint smile touching his lips as he reached for the toast he had set aside earlier, his movements unhurried, giving her the space to sit with what had been said.
"I'm sorry," he said gently, "I didn't mean to place so much on your shoulders all at once. I doubt that was the answer you were hoping for, or even the one you wanted to hear."
Jeanne shook her head, not dismissing him, but still working through the weight of it. "No… that's not it. It's just that I've never really looked at it that way before." She drew a quiet breath, her gaze drifting toward the manor in the distance, its presence suddenly feeling far heavier than it had moments ago. "I suppose I've been naiver than I realized."
There was a small, almost self-conscious laugh. "The idea of being a Lady, of holding a title, of living within that kind of world. I always saw it through the eyes of someone standing outside it, like a little girl looking through gilded gates at something beautiful and unreachable. Grand halls, tea parties, music, laughter… a life where everything felt effortless, where people were cared for, where comfort simply existed without question. A life that felt almost dreamlike."
Her gaze lingered before dimming slightly. "But now it feels less like a dream and more like something else entirely. A kind of blindness I never thought to question, a comfort built on not seeing what lies beneath it."
She lifted her eyes back to him. "You see it differently. Not as something to enjoy, but as something to use. A position that gives you the ability to stand against what's wrong, even when others hide behind it. And part of me understands that, part of me agrees with you, but there's another part that can't help but hesitate."
Godric's brow lifted slightly, his attention sharpening. Jeanne continued. Her words steady despite the weight behind it. "Because power doesn't stay still. Even when it's used for the right reasons, it changes things. It changes people. And when you start forcing others to follow your will, even if you believe you're right, you risk becoming no different from the ones you stood against in the first place. Not evil, not exactly, but close enough that the line starts to blur. There are too many stories of people who began with good intentions and ended up doing things just as terrible as those they opposed."
Her gaze lowered again, quieter now. "I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of responsibility, or if I'd even recognize the moment I crossed that line."
Godric tilted his head slightly, studying her, weighing her words without dismissing them. "So that's what worries you?" he asked, his tone calm, grounded. "That accepting your birthright means stepping onto a path you might not be able to walk back from, that you might end up becoming just another noble misusing the very authority you were given?"
Jeanne paused, the weight of the question lingering for a moment longer before she gave a small, reluctant nod.
Godric caught it, and for a second he tried to hold it in, but the sound slipped through anyway, a low laugh that grew into a quiet chuckle as he shook his head. Jeanne's expression tightened at once, her lips pressing into a pout as her eyes narrowed at him.
"What's so funny?" she asked, a hint of indignation slipping through.
"It's just…" he started, lifting a hand to wipe at the corner of his eye as he steadied himself, "you, thinking you've got a bad bone within you. Gods, I wish Salazar were here. He'd have a far sharper remark ready for that."
Jeanne straightened slightly, folding her arms. "I'll have you know, Godric Gryffindor, that I am perfectly capable of doing something truly despicable."
"Of course, you are," he replied, the smile lingering easily now, "in the same way a pair of bunny slippers is a threat to the realm."
Her glare deepened, though there was no real bite behind it.
"That's exactly why I'm not worried," he continued, his tone softening as his gaze settled on her more seriously. "And it's why you shouldn't be either."
Jeanne hesitated, the shift catching her off guard.
"I know you," Godric said, the words steady, certain. "You're not the kind of person who'd take power and use it to grind others down. Someone like that doesn't throw themselves in front of a blade for someone else." He paused briefly, his expression thoughtful. "And more than that, you weren't raised to believe you're above consequence. You don't see wealth as something that lets you do as you please and walk away untouched."
A faint breath left him, quieter now.
"If more nobles carried themselves the way you do, the world would look very different," he added. "Across Avalon, across every place we've seen, a lot of what people suffer through might never have come to pass."
He leaned back slightly, the weight of his words easing as he gave her a small, reassuring smile.
"I've said what I needed to say," he went on. "The choice is yours in the end. Our time here's running short, and Lady Genavieve will be expecting an answer soon. We'll need to leave by tomorrow if we're going to make it back to Caerleon before the next term begins." He tilted his head just slightly. "But whatever you decide, Jeanne, I trust you'll make the right call."
With that, he lifted his toast and finally took a bite.
Jeanne remained still for a moment, the quiet settling around her as her thoughts aligned, the uncertainty giving way to something firmer, more resolved. Then she looked up, her attention shifting to one of the nearby servants.
"Please inform Lady Genavieve that I would like a word," she said. "And that I have my answer."
"At once, my lady," the servant replied, placing a hand over his chest before bowing, then turning and making his way down the marbled steps, disappearing from the pergola.
Jeanne's gaze returned to Godric, a faint tension still lingering, though it had changed shape.
"I suppose there's no point delaying it any longer."
Godric's crimson eyes widened slightly as he chewed, swallowing before letting out a quiet breath. "Fair enough," he said, a hint of amusement returning, "though I was hoping you might let me finish breakfast first."
Jeanne let out a small, nervous laugh. "Sorry about that."