The tavern glowed beneath a gentle haze of amber light cast from crystal sconces along the walls, their warmth blending with the deep crimson glow of lanterns hanging above the polished bar counter. Oak and pale bamboo lined the interior in rich layers, every surface lacquered to a gleaming sheen that reflected the soft light dancing across the room. Even now, months after the Siege, the faint scents of varnish, paint thinner, and fresh timber still lingered subtly beneath the aromas of food and alcohol, quiet reminders of just how close the place had once come to disappearing entirely.
Bastion still remembered what the tavern had looked like afterward.
Shattered tables overturned across the floor. Lanterns torn apart. Fabrics ripped down from the ceiling. Entire sections of the bar splintered inward while looters stripped whatever bottles and supplies remained in the chaos following the battle. The old izakaya, as Rem's family lovingly called it, had nearly died that day. A style of tavern brought generations ago from Nihon far to the land beyond east of Avalon, the establishment had stood in Caerleon for almost four generations ever since Rem's ancestors first migrated there in search of a better life.
Now, however, it lived again.
The day had given way to the night, and the tavern buzzed with life and movement as patrons shuffled between tables while conversations rose and fell in overlapping waves of laughter and chatter. The air carried scents unlike those found in ordinary Caerleon taverns, rich with grilled mackerel glazed in soy, bowls of steaming miso soup, freshly cooked rice garnished with seaweed, and delicate slices of raw fish laid carefully across ceramic platters.
Bamboo chopsticks clicked softly against bowls while enthusiastic patrons slurped noodles loud enough to earn playful complaints from neighboring tables. Between glasses of chilled beer and delicate saucers of fragrant rice wine, even the most stubborn locals had gradually fallen in love with the strange eastern cuisine that once seemed so foreign to them.
Though if Bastion were being honest with himself, the food was only half the reason the tavern remained so packed every evening.
The other half was Rem and her sisters.
All seven of them were cat therians, human features, but each with different shades of fur decorating their ears and tails, their appearances varied enough that the regular patrons had practically begun picking favorites. Dressed in richly embroidered kimonos woven from silks patterned with flowers, waves, and cranes, they moved gracefully through the tavern carrying trays of food and drink while charming half the district without even trying.
Bastion had lost count of how many men visibly melted the second one of them smiled in their direction. Frankly, he couldn't blame them.
Seated at a small side table against the wall, Bastion watched the tavern quietly with a tiny ceramic cup clasped loosely between his fingers. Warm rice wine lingered against his tongue, sweet with hints of cherry blossom and comforting in a way stronger spirits rarely managed to be. Over the past few months he had grown strangely fond of the drink despite years spent preferring heavy ales and harsher liquor.
His mismatched eyes followed Rem as she moved through the crowd, smiling warmly at patrons while accepting compliments and playful praise with practiced ease. The soft laughter escaping her now and then tugged an equally soft smile onto Bastion's face before he could stop it, a faint redness creeping across his cheeks almost immediately afterward.
Though the feeling lasted only until Frank's words returned uninvited to the forefront of his thoughts, bringing with them uncomfortable ideas of courtship, marriage, and perhaps even one day building a family of his own.
The warmth faded almost immediately afterward. Instead, memory dragged him elsewhere.
He remembered his grandfather sitting alone at the dining table late into the night surrounded by half-empty bottles of Mahakaman whiskey while silence consumed the room around him, remembered the hollow expression the old used to wear while staring endlessly toward the photographs hanging upon the walls. As a child, Bastion had never understood that look, had never comprehended why the old man would sit there motionless for hours with his gaze fixed upon images from a life long gone, but now, older and wearier than he cared to admit, Bastion realized Wilhelm had never truly been staring at nothing at all.
He had been staring at ghosts, at memories of Bastion's grandmother smiling beside him during happier years before loss and grief hollowed pieces out of the man one tragedy at a time until all that remained was someone carrying the unbearable weight of everything he could no longer protect.
Then came the memory of his mother sitting upon the edge of her bed with tears slipping silently down her cheeks while clutching a photograph of the man Bastion had never known, the therian father who, for reasons nobody within the family had ever fully explained, had eventually been forced to leave. Whenever Bastion asked about him growing up, his grandparents would avoid the subject entirely while his mother looked as though the question itself reopened wounds she had spent years trying desperately to bury beneath silence and routine.
To them, the truth had always been "complicated." To her, it had simply been painful enough that speaking of it became impossible. And somewhere deep within himself, Bastion understood that those memories had shaped him far more than he had ever willingly admitted, planting within him a quiet fear that no matter how deeply people loved one another, life eventually found a way to tear them apart all the same, leaving behind only grief, loneliness, and photographs hanging upon walls like monuments to happier days that could never be reclaimed.
Keeping people at arm's length had simply become easier and safer.
Because no matter how much he found himself drawn toward Rem, no matter how comforting her presence felt amidst the chaos swallowing Caerleon whole, another part of him remained terrified of allowing himself to care deeply enough for loss to destroy him the same way it had destroyed so many others before him.
Bastion exhaled slowly, the heaviness pressing against his chest somehow outweighing even the massive sword he carried his back, now resting against the wall beside him, while the noise of the tavern blurred faintly into the background beneath the weight of his thoughts. Between the Tower, the unrest spreading throughout the city, the uncertainty surrounding his future, and the growing exhaustion clawing steadily at the edges of his mind, he found himself questioning whether there was truly anything left worth fighting for anymore, especially when Elias' words continued echoing relentlessly through the back of his mind, reminding him again and again that the hardest monsters to kill were never the ones standing in front of you with blades, spears, or magic, but the ones buried deep inside your own head, slowly hollowing you out from within until one day you no longer recognized the person staring back at you in the mirror.
And despite how badly Bastion wanted to deny it, some part of him already knew the truth.
He was losing that fight.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
The fabric draped across the tavern entrance stirred softly as someone stepped through, and almost immediately the warmth and liveliness filling the establishment dulled beneath the weight of a new presence.
"Irasshaimase!" Rem and her sisters called out together in practiced unison, though the bright smiles on their faces faltered almost as quickly as they appeared, nervousness creeping visibly into their expressions the moment they recognized who had entered.
Conversation throughout the tavern gradually thinned into uneasy silence. Eyes followed the man as he stepped further inside, dressed in a dark ash-gray overcoat worn over a perfectly tailored black uniform and matching tie, the muted lanternlight reflecting faintly across polished buttons and leather gloves. His black hair had been swept carelessly backward while a thick mustache and short beard framed sharp features set against tanned olive skin, though it was neither his appearance nor his imposing stature that drew the tavern's immediate attention.
It was the sword.
The elongated katana remained firmly clasped within his left hand as though it were less a weapon and more an extension of himself, the royal-blue scabbard polished to a mirror sheen while gold lined its edges and guard with understated elegance. White wraps encircled the hilt beneath gloved fingers while a decorative cord tied around the sheath allowed two loose ends to sway gently with each measured step he took across the wooden floorboards.
His boots struck the ground. His eyes, black as polished obsidian, never once strayed from the space ahead of him.
Then came the whispers.
Low murmurs spread throughout the tavern as patrons leaned toward one another, some immediately recognizing him while others quietly questioned who exactly he was. Curiosity soon shifted into hostility the moment more than a few noticed the emblem pinned neatly against his lapel, the unmistakable insignia of the Authority catching beneath the lanternlight.
Expressions hardened almost instantly.
Several patrons openly scowled while others glared with barely concealed contempt, shoulders stiffening as muttered curses passed beneath their breath. One man noisily cleared his throat before spitting into his cup instead of the floor, the gesture prudent enough that the meaning behind it required no explanation whatsoever.
The man ignored all of it.
Rem hesitated briefly before stepping forward to greet him properly, clutching a round serving tray tightly against her chest while her ears flattened nervously against her head and her tail flicked anxiously behind her kimono.
"U-um…" she began carefully, forcing politeness back into her voice despite the tension now gripping the room. "A table for one, sir?"
The man stopped before her and looked down calmly.
"Actually," he replied, "I'm here to meet a friend."
"Yoo-hoo! Hector, ole' boy!"
Hector's gaze shifted toward the back corner of the tavern where Bastion sat comfortably raising his tiny ceramic cup in greeting, a crooked grin already spreading across his face. At once, the faintest smile tugged at Hector's lips.
"And there she blows," he murmured dryly before lowering his attention back toward Rem once more. "Tell me, would you happen to have a bottle of Senbonzakura available this evening?"
Rem blinked in surprise, her ears immediately perking upward.
"Ah, yes, I believe we do," she replied quickly, though uncertainty crept into her expression. "But I should probably warn you that it's… well…"
Her words trailed off awkwardly while she bit lightly against her bottom lip.
"Price is of no concern," Hector assured her smoothly. "After all, tonight marks a rather special occasion." He adjusted his gloves slightly before continuing. "And while you're at it, perhaps you could bring us some oden alongside your finest sashimi selection, the biggest one you have. I suspect we'll be here for quite some time."
Relief visibly spread across Rem's face as she nodded.
"O-of course!"
A small smile returned to her lips before she hurried toward the kitchen, leaving Hector standing briefly amidst the lingering tension still hanging over the tavern. He exhaled quietly before finally making his way toward Bastion's table, the whispers around him gradually resuming in cautious murmurs as he passed.
Stopping beside the table, Hector's gaze drifted toward the small wooden bucket and the clay pitcher tucked neatly within it.
"I see you've already gotten started without me," he observed.
"Hey, you said seven o'clock," Bastion replied while lightly shaking his now-empty cup. "It's already past nine. I was starting to think you stood me up."
Hector let out a restrained sigh before carefully resting his katana against the nearby wall and lowering himself into the chair opposite Bastion with practiced composure.
"My sincerest apologies," he said, offering a brief bow of his head. "The past few days have been rather… hectic." His expression darkened faintly afterward. "Frankly, given the abysmal state of the Authority here within Caerleon, I must admit it's genuinely astonishing how catastrophically mismanaged the entire institution has become."
"Tell me about it," Bastion groaned as he rolled his eyes. "Calling the Tower a mess right now would be the understatement of the damned century."
His mismatched gaze settled on Hector across the table while irritation crept visibly across his face. "Don't get me wrong, the place was already a complete shithouse with Burgess sitting in the big chair. Bastard just happened to take the largest possible diarrhea dump over the whole institution before bowing out and leaving the rest of us to clean up whatever's left."
"And this time," Bastion admitted more quietly, "I honestly don't know if we can."
Reaching for one of the small ceramic cups resting beside the pitcher, Bastion slid it carefully across the table toward Hector before lifting the clay bottle and pouring the clear liquid slowly into the cup. The sweet scent of warmed rice wine drifted upward immediately, carrying that familiar burn Bastion had gradually grown accustomed to over the months.
"But hey," he muttered with a shrug, "that's life I suppose."
Hector watched the surface of the sake settle within the cup before finally lifting his eyes toward Bastion once more.
"I was never personally acquainted with Burgess himself," he said, "though I certainly heard enough stories over the years." He lightly rotated the cup between gloved fingers. "The man possessed a reputation carrying nearly the same weight and renown your grandfather once did." A faint pause followed. "Though naturally without the honor attached to it."
His expression darkened slightly afterward.
"Even so, I must admit that the revelations surrounding him were difficult to stomach." Hector's gaze lowered briefly toward the clear reflection within the sake. "What he did, what he willingly allowed to happen, all in pursuit of ambition and influence."
He exhaled quietly. "Then again, I stopped underestimating the depths of human depravity a very long time ago, because every single occasion where you convince yourself a man has surely reached the very bottom of moral decay, he somehow still finds new ways to sink even lower."
The lanternlight shimmered softly across the cup as Hector finally raised it to his lips. The moment the sake touched his tongue, his eyes widened ever so slightly before easing shut altogether while another quiet breath escaped him.
"By the Gods…" he murmured, shaking his head faintly. "How I have missed this."
A rare softness touched his expression then, the tension in his shoulders easing for perhaps the first time since entering the tavern.
"It feels as though only yesterday I was still wandering the streets of Edo," Hector continued, lowering the cup carefully back onto the table. "And I must confess, somewhere along the way I developed such a fondness for proper sake that most Avalonian liquor now feels positively barbaric by comparison."
A faint smirk tugged subtly at the corner of his mouth. "Frankly, I suspect another month drinking Caerleon ale would have eventually dissolved my internal organs altogether."
Bastion chuckled softly. "Yeah," he said with a shake of his head, "that sounds about right."
He lifted the small ceramic cup to his lips and took another slow sip, allowing the warmth and sweetness to settle across his tongue.
"Honestly, I didn't even know what sake was until I first got to Caerleon," Bastion continued. "Back then I was just looking for a decent place to stay after bouncing between inns for a week straight when I stumbled into this place by accident." A crooked grin tugged at his face. "Though between you and me, rent around this district is criminal. Absolute highway robbery."
He lowered the cup back onto the table with a soft clink. "Anyways, Rem—"
"Rem?" Hector interrupted immediately, one eyebrow rising with elegant precision.
Bastion motioned with a flick of his eyes as Hector followed the motion toward Rem as she moved between tables balancing a tray of food and drinks effortlessly through the crowd.
"Ah," Hector murmured once he spotted her. "The young lady from earlier."
His attention drifted back toward Bastion. Amusement now visible beneath the composed surface of his expression. "How fascinating," he said smoothly. "You appear to be on a first-name basis with her."
Bastion frowned slightly. "Is that supposed to be weird?"
"Well," Hector replied while lifting his cup once more, "in Nihon culture, addressing someone by their given name generally implies a degree of familiarity or closeness." A faint smirk touched his lips. "Using it casually without invitation is usually considered rather improper."
Bastion immediately stiffened. The color drained from his face almost instantly. "She never said anything, I mean—I didn't know that was a thing and now I'm thinking back on every conversation we've had and—"
"Bastion," Hector interrupted calmly, lightly gesturing with one hand for him to settle down, "do relax."
Bastion stopped mid-spiral.
"I highly doubt the poor girl secretly despises you over a cultural misunderstanding," Hector continued dryly before taking another sip of sake. "If anything, she likely found it more amusing than offensive."
Bastion let out a long breath. "Right," he muttered. "Fair enough."
Hector inclined his head slightly.
"Now then," he said smoothly, "please continue before you suffer a complete emotional collapse."
Bastion rolled his eyes at that before reaching once more for the pitcher. "Like I was saying, Rem's the one who got me hooked on the stuff." He poured himself another cup. "Started off with her offering me some as a welcome drink whenever I dropped by, then somewhere along the way I ended up completely addicted." A quiet laugh escaped him. "At this point I can barely stomach normal liquor anymore."
"Well," Hector replied with surprising fondness, "if memory serves, that has always been a recurring pattern with you."
Bastion narrowed his eyes immediately.
"You become attached to something and then proceed to throw yourself into it with alarming dedication." He tilted the cup lightly in Bastion's direction. "I distinctly recall your mother finding that particular trait absolutely maddening."
Bastion groaned loudly.
"Oh, har har, real funny," he muttered while dragging a hand down his face. "Don't sit there pretending you weren't tailing me every step of the way."
Hector actually laughed at that, the sound quieter and more genuine than most people ever heard from him. "Well," he admitted with a small smile, "we were rather thick as thieves back then, weren't we?"
A brief silence settled between them while the tavern continued humming softly around the edges of their table, filled with overlapping conversations, clinking glasses, and the distant crackle of grilled fish somewhere beyond the kitchen curtains. Bastion's gaze lowered toward the small ceramic cup resting between his fingers as he absentmindedly spun it slowly across the polished surface of the table, the thoughts he had been holding back pressing heavier against the inside of his chest with every passing second.
He was about to say it.
About to finally ask the questions that had been clawing at the back of his mind ever since he first reunited with Hector. The words already sat at the edge of his tongue when suddenly Rem reappeared beside the table accompanied by two of her sisters, all three struggling together beneath the weight of an absolutely monstrous platter shaped like an ornate wooden ship.
The thing landed atop the table with a heavy thud loud enough to make Bastion visibly jump.
His eyes widened immediately.
Layered across crushed ice rested enough fresh seafood to feed an entire bloody platoon, with neatly arranged slices of salmon, tuna, and mackerel surrounding oysters, squid, prawns, crab, and several varieties of shellfish Bastion couldn't even begin to identify. Delicate garnishes of greens and carved vegetables framed the arrangement so elaborately that for a brief moment he genuinely felt bad about the idea of eating any of it.
Then Rem carefully lowered a large sapphire-blue bottle of sake into a wooden bucket filled with steaming water beside the platter, the glass shimmering beneath the lanternlight with flecks of pink that glittered almost like stars trapped beneath the surface.
The three sisters bowed together in perfect unison.
"Hai, dōzo!"
Then, before Bastion could even begin processing the sheer scale of what had just been delivered to their table, they turned and hurried back toward the kitchen once more, leaving him staring silently at the mountain of food before him with an expression hovering somewhere between awe, confusion, and genuine alarm.
Across from him, Hector merely split apart his chopsticks with the calm composure of a man who apparently considered this entirely reasonable while the faintest trace of amusement lingered beneath his otherwise refined expression.
"Gods above…" Bastion muttered at last, dragging a hand slowly down his face before gesturing helplessly toward the absurd spread before them. "Hector, I said I was hungry, but sure as hell not imprisoned in some dungeon for a century surviving off rats and candle wax kinda hungry."
His mismatched eyes swept slowly across the table again as though hoping the amount of food might somehow decrease if he stared long enough. "You don't expect the both of us put away the whole damned thing."
"Modest as ever," Hector replied smoothly while adjusting the cuff of one glove before reaching toward the platter with his chopsticks. "Though if memory serves correctly, your appetite was once positively monstrous."
"Yeah," Bastion scoffed, "when I was ten." He gestured vaguely toward the platter again. "Nowadays I can barely put away a decent steak without regretting my entire existence afterward."
"Well," Hector said with infuriating calmness while delicately lifting a slice of salmon from the ice, "if you truly intend on allowing all this effort to go to waste, I imagine Rem and her family would find that rather disappointing after taking the time to prepare it specifically for you."
Bastion slowly raised his eyes toward him, already recognizing the tone well enough to know precisely what Hector was doing.
The realization settled heavily across his face.
"Oh, you son of a bitch, you really haven't changed at all," he said at last, narrowing his gaze while Hector's lips curled into the faintest trace of a knowing simper.
"And neither," Hector replied before finally tasting the salmon, "have you, old friend."
****
The hours drifted by with an easy steadiness as the tavern gradually emptied beneath the rising moon, the once lively crowds thinning further and further the deeper the night settled over Caerleon. Beyond the windows, the streets had quieted considerably, reduced now to the occasional passing carriage, the distant hum of engines from late-night traffic, and the scattered few citizens lingering beneath the glow of street lights and neon signs long after respectable folk had already gone home. Inside the tavern, however, warmth still lingered stubbornly within the polished wood and amber lighting, though even that had begun to dim as Rem and her sisters moved quietly from table to table clearing dishes, wiping surfaces, and stacking ceramics while the establishment slowly wound down for the evening.
Somewhere deeper within the tavern, their parents had already retired into the private quarters carrying the day's earnings with them, and from the satisfied exhaustion plastered across the older cat therian man's face before he disappeared through the curtains, it had clearly been a profitable night.
Still seated at their table amidst the aftermath of what could only be described as a culinary massacre, Bastion and Hector shared another burst of laughter, both visibly flushed from the warmth of their second bottle of sake while the enormous platter they had spent the better part of the evening devouring had long since been carted away by the sisters hours earlier.
Through what Bastion could only assume was divine intervention or sheer competitive stubbornness inherited from their childhood, the two of them had somehow managed to consume enough food to comfortably sustain an entire family for a week, neither willing to concede defeat once the challenge had silently established itself between them.
"Wait, wait, wait," Bastion said through a half-slurred laugh while gesturing wildly with the ceramic cup in his hand. "You're actually married?" His mismatched eyes widened dramatically. "And you've got kids?"
Hector, whose composure had softened considerably beneath the alcohol despite still carrying himself with that same elegant refinement Bastion remembered from years ago, allowed a genuine smile to spread across his face.
"Seven years now," he replied smoothly, the faint pride in his tone impossible to miss. "A son and a daughter. Five and four." His gaze lowered briefly toward the cup resting between his fingers before a quieter warmth settled across his expression. "I met her during an assignment in Erebor. Her family operates a mining consortium within the mountain territories there."
"Erebor?" Bastion repeated, brows lifting immediately. "Wait a minute, are you telling me she's a—"
"Dwarf?" Hector chuckled softly before taking another sip of sake. "Well, half-dwarf technically. Her father's side of the family traces directly back to the mountain clans, while her mother happened to be half therian." A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Though outside of the eyes, you'd never know it. No ears, no tail, no particularly dwarven features either. Frankly, she managed to inherit just enough from everyone involved to confuse absolutely everybody."
Bastion barked out another laugh. "Talk about a mixed bag."
"I suppose you can say we're all in that same bag," Hector replied while resting the side of his head lazily against one hand, the alcohol leaving him noticeably more relaxed than usual. "Though enough about my family." His dark eyes lifted toward Bastion with immediate suspicion. "What exactly about yours?"
Bastion frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, don't play coy with me," Hector replied while rolling his eyes. "Surely there must be some lucky woman unfortunate enough to have captured your attention by now."
His gaze shifted briefly across the tavern toward Rem, who at that exact moment happened to be carrying a stack of plates toward the kitchen.
"Or perhaps," Hector continued far too smoothly, "your interests happen to involve a certain therian girl currently pretending not to glance in this direction every thirty seconds."
Bastion nearly choked on his drink.
"T-that is absolutely none of your damned business," he sputtered while his already flushed face somehow managed to redden even further. "And for the record, no, I'm not seeing anyone." He pointed accusingly across the table. "Besides, marriage is the absolute last thing on my mind right now."
"That much is painfully obvious," Hector replied with a knowing smirk. "Though in fairness, you always did possess catastrophically poor luck when it came to women."
Bastion immediately scoffed.
"Oh, that's rich coming from you," he shot back while gesturing with his cup. "Need I remind you who came sprinting home in tears after little Suzie Fairweather called him ugly when you tried confessing your feelings to her?"
Hector stared at him flatly.
"I was six years old, Bastion," he replied with dignified annoyance. "And unless alcohol has permanently destroyed your memory, I do so recall you suffering the exact same fate not even a week later."
The silence lasted barely a second before both men broke into helpless laughter loud enough that Rem glanced over from across the tavern with visible amusement.
"Oh, Gods above," Bastion wheezed while wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. "Those really were the days."
Then suddenly another thought struck him.
"Oh, and speaking of Suzie," he added while grinning wickedly over the rim of his cup, "you'll never believe who she ended up marrying."
Hector narrowed his eyes immediately. "…I dislike that expression already."
"Vernon."
A pause followed.
Hector blinked.
"Vernon Sax?" he repeated slowly. "As in Boogers Sax?"
Bastion immediately lost composure again.
"The very same."
Hector's face twisted in absolute disbelief.
"No," he breathed. "You are unequivocally taking the piss."
"Oh, I swear on my life," Bastion laughed. "Three kids too. Apparently, he works at Highgarden Bank now as an auditor." He shook his head incredulously. "Whole thing happened because their families arranged some fancy dinner, there was too much wine involved, one questionable decision led to another, and next thing you know they're happily married."
Hector covered part of his face while laughing despite himself.
"This is horribly cruel," he admitted between chuckles. "I truly should not find this nearly as amusing as I do." He gestured helplessly with one hand. "It's simply difficult to process because we once believed Suzie was the most beautiful girl alive while Vernon looked like someone had attempted to sculpt a human face entirely from wet clay and regret."
Bastion nearly doubled over laughing.
Hector exhaled softly afterward, still smiling faintly as he swirled the remaining sake within his cup.
"Gods," he murmured. "Life really is quite strange sometimes, isn't it?"
Slowly, the laughter between them began to fade, the warmth of moment settling into something quieter as the fleeting joy that had filled the table gradually slipped away beneath the weight of older memories neither of them had truly escaped. For a long moment neither Bastion nor Hector spoke.
They simply held one another's gaze across the table while an unspoken understanding passed silently between them, both recognizing that the easy laughter, the childish stories, and the comfortable nostalgia had merely been a brief reprieve from everything waiting beneath the surface.
Bastion eventually reached for the sake bottle once more, the movement slower now as he filled both cups before carefully setting the bottle back down between them.
"Hector…" he began quietly.
The dark-haired man looked up from his cup.
Bastion hesitated.
"What… what happened to you?" he finally asked, the concern in his mismatched eyes impossible to hide now that the humor between them had faded. "After…" He stopped himself abruptly, jaw tightening for a moment before trying again. "After what happened, everyone said you were being sent away to live with your uncle." His brows furrowed slightly. "And then you just… disappeared."
Hector's gaze slowly lowered toward the clear surface of the sake resting in his hands.
"No letters," Bastion continued softly. "No calls. No messages. Nothing." He watched him carefully. "One day you were there, and the next you were gone."
The tavern felt quieter now. Then Bastion gestured vaguely toward Hector himself.
"And now suddenly you show up here? In Caerleon?" Confusion mixed with disbelief across his expression. "Looking like…" He exhaled sharply through his nose while motioning toward the overcoat, the katana resting against the wall, the immaculate uniform beneath it all. "Like this."
Finally, his finger pointed directly toward the emblem pinned neatly upon Hector's chest.
"That badge especially."
Hector remained silent.
"You and I used to despise the Authority." A faint scoff escaped him as memories resurfaced. "Hell, despise isn't even the right word. We hated the damned shitfaced bastards." His lips twitched faintly despite himself. "Back in Camelot we used to pick fights with rookies just for the fun of it."
A pause followed.
"And most of the time," Bastion admitted with the faintest ghost of a grin, "we actually won."
The amusement faded quickly afterward.
"So, what the hell happened to you?" Bastion finally asked, his words, stripped of the humor and warmth that had filled the table moments earlier. "How did the boy I used to bloody noses with, the same idiot who curb-stomped slaver scum beside me in back alleys, end up throwing his lot in with them?"
His mismatched eyes searched Hector's face carefully, almost desperately, as though trying to find traces of the person he once knew buried somewhere beneath the uniform, the badge, and the man sitting before him now. "How did the boy who swore he'd grow up to break chains become the one making sure they stay locked around everyone else's necks?"
The words trailed off after that, leaving only silence hanging heavily between them while Bastion waited for an answer, he suspected might hurt far more than he was prepared for.
Hector's fingers tapped slowly against the surface of the table in a steady, measured rhythm while silence stretched between them once more, though from the tightening of his jaw and the rigid stillness settling through his posture, Bastion could tell the man was holding something back with considerable effort. Whether it was anger, grief, or bitterness buried too deeply to untangle anymore, Bastion could not tell, but when Hector finally lifted his gaze to meet his, even through the dim tavern light he could see the darkness lingering behind those obsidian-black eyes.
"A great deal happened," Hector said at last. His fingers stopped tapping altogether before slowly curling into a fist, the faint creak of tightening leather gloves audible between them. "Far more than you know, and considerably more than you could ever anticipate."
Bastion remained silent. His gaze fixed firmly upon him.
"You already know the story," Hector continued. "You know precisely what happened that night." A faint pause followed. "One moment of foolishness. One moment of misplaced trust." His jaw tightened. "One moment that changed everything."
The tavern suddenly felt colder.
"They opened their home and their hearts to one they believed they could trust," Hector said quietly, though the restraint in his tone only made the anger beneath it feel sharper. "And in return, damnation descended upon them while I stood there utterly powerless to stop it."
His eyes lowered briefly toward the untouched sake in his cup.
"You were correct," he admitted after a moment. "I was sent away afterward to live with my uncle in Edo." A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "Estranged from the rest of the family for no crime other than the career he chose." Hector leaned back slightly, though the tension never left his shoulders. "My uncle was a senior-ranking Authority agent, and the moment he returned home wearing that badge upon his chest, my father and grandfather cast him out entirely."
The bitterness in Hector's expression deepened slightly.
"'No place in this family for Authority filth,' they called him," he said quietly. "Though, despite all of that, despite the hatred, the resentment, and the years spent apart, he still took me in without hesitation when nobody else would."
A silence passed between them afterward while Bastion listened carefully.
"And it was under his care," Hector continued, slowly straightening in his seat once more, "that I learned the single most valuable truth this world has to offer."
His gaze lifted again, colder now, sharper.
"Might governs everything."
The words landed heavily.
"Without strength, without power," Hector said, steady and unwavering now, "you cannot protect anyone. Not your family, not your home, not the people you care about." His eyes locked firmly with Bastion's. "You cannot even protect yourself."
The lanternlight shimmered across the polished sheath of Hector's katana resting against the wall beside them, the gold lining along the scabbard catching the warm glow in such a way that it almost resembled fire dancing along the steel. For a moment, Hector's gaze lingered there, distant, contemplative, before his eyes slowly lifted once more toward Bastion.
"And it was through my uncle's guidance," Hector said quietly, "that I eventually discovered where I belonged." His expression hardened subtly. "My purpose." A pause followed. "My nature."
Bastion frowned immediately.
"Hector…" he said slowly, unease creeping into his words. "What the hell are you going on about?"
Hector ignored the question entirely.
"Have you ever stopped to consider what all slaves fundamentally have in common?" he continued instead, calm with a composure that somehow made the words far more unsettling.
The question lingered unanswered between them. Bastion's brows furrowed deeper, though before he could speak, Hector continued without missing a beat.
"They are weak," he said flatly. "Weak, fearful, pathetic creatures whose existence serves as proof of the rot festering at the heart of every race beneath the heavens." His black eyes darkened further. "Human, elf, dwarf, orc, therian, it matters little. Birth, blood, circumstance, creed." He gave a faint shake of his head. "All utterly meaningless distinctions."
The atmosphere around the table had changed completely now.
"To survive," Hector continued, "one must possess value, and flesh itself has never been anything more than a commodity." His fingers rested calmly against the table once more while Bastion stared at him in growing disbelief. "Something to be bought, sold, exploited, and repurposed by those strong enough to seize control of it."
Bastion's expression slowly twisted, revulsion and horror beginning to settle visibly across his face as he struggled to process the words coming from the man sitting opposite him.
"Hector…"
"Life itself," Hector said over him, "is merely another resource waiting to be transformed into capital, and the machine built around that principle is truly magnificent once you stop lying to yourself about what civilization actually is." The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips then, cold and humorless. "An endless structure designed with a singular purpose."
His eyes lifted fully toward Bastion.
"To create profit."
Silence followed while Bastion sat motionless, unable to reconcile the man speaking now with the boy he had once grown up beside.
"But that aspect of the enterprise has never particularly interested me," Hector continued after a moment, almost casually. "Acquisition, commerce, negotiations, ownership." He dismissed the concepts with the slightest wave of his fingers. "Those responsibilities belong to other men."
His hand slowly tightened against the table.
"My duties," he said quietly, "lie elsewhere."
Something dangerous settled into his expression then.
"I exist to ensure the stock remains obedient," Hector said calmly. "Docile, compliant, and if necessary, kept that way beneath the ever-present threat of death."
A pause.
"Power was never simply handed to me in Edo," Hector continued. "It was offered through a crucible." A faint smile touched his lips, though there was no warmth behind it whatsoever. "My master used to say that steel cannot be strengthened without first enduring fire, and it was through that fire that I ultimately earned my place."
A quiet laugh escaped him then.
"Though admittedly," Hector murmured, "I harbored no shortage of motivation."
His black eyes lifted toward Bastion again, calm, unreadable, horrifyingly steady.
"You see, every so often, the concept of hope begins seeping into the poisoned wells from which the enslaved draw their thoughts." He tilted his head faintly. "They begin entertaining delusions. Fantasies of grandeur. They forget their place within the structure." A faint scoff slipped through his nose. "Some even convince themselves that laws are merely suggestions and that freedom is something capable of being seized from those who own them."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I am the one tasked with burying those illusions," Hector said quietly. "Alongside everyone too stubborn to relinquish them."
The tavern had gone almost completely still around them now. Even the sounds from the kitchen had diminished beneath the weight of the conversation taking place at their table.
"You remember the Lupa Uprising," Hector continued after a moment. "The Drimachus Revolt. The Chatham Rebellion before that."
The faint twitch in Bastion's expression was answer enough.
"Hundreds dead in some," Hector said softly. "Thousands in others." His gaze grew distant for a brief moment as though the memories themselves were unfolding somewhere behind his eyes. "Men, women, children, even infants."
Bastion's stomach turned.
"Among the enslaved, they became martyrs," Hector continued, his tone never once wavering. "To the rest of civilization, however, they became warnings." A faint pause followed. "I personally ensured that."
For the first time that evening, something almost human flickered faintly across Hector's face, though whether it was regret or merely remembrance Bastion could not tell.
"In truth," Hector murmured while staring somewhere beyond the lanternlight above them, "I can still hear the screaming even now."
Then came the sharp sound of cracking ceramic. Hector's gaze lowered instantly. The cup in Bastion's hand had shattered completely beneath the force of his grip, fragments scattered across the table while sake spilled between his fingers and dripped steadily onto the wooden floor below. Bastion himself sat perfectly still, though the expression on his face had changed entirely, the disbelief and confusion from earlier now replaced by something colder, darker, and infinitely more dangerous.
Hector studied him for a moment before giving the faintest shrug.
"Like I said before, old friend," he said quietly, "even after all these years, you truly haven't changed at all."
His eyes drifted briefly toward the blood beginning to mix with the spilled sake across Bastion's palm.
"You still cling to that same misguided notion of justice and chivalry your grandfather wore like some sacred beacon of truth and hope." A faint bitterness crept into his words then, subtle yet unmistakable. "And for the longest time." Hector exhaled softly. "I believed in it too."
The confession lingered heavily between them.
Then Hector's gaze lifted fully once more. "I know that some part of you still carried hope that the boy you once knew was still somewhere beneath all of this. That the friend you grew up beside could somehow still be salvaged."
Slowly, Hector shook his head.
"But that boy died a very long time ago, Bastion," he said, utterly devoid of hesitation. "He died the same night everything else did." His black eyes remained locked firmly with Bastion's. "And despite whatever memories we still share, I believe you and I began walking separate paths long before either of us realized it."
A long silence lingered between them after Hector's final words. Bastion remained motionless for several seconds, blood still dripping slowly from his palm where shards of ceramic remained embedded beneath the skin, though he hardly seemed to notice the pain anymore.
Then, finally, a scoff escaped him.
"You know," Bastion muttered while shaking his head faintly, "you always did have a way with words." His gaze lowered briefly toward the shattered remains of the cup before lifting again toward Hector. "Part of me used to be jealous of that, honestly. You always sounded refined. Proper. Like some highborn noble straight out of Camelot while I sounded like some backwater idiot dragged outta a swamp kicking and screaming."
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips for barely a second. "Hell, grandpa was about as subtle as a tavern brawl with explosives."
The warmth vanished from his expression almost immediately afterward.
"But right now?" Bastion said quietly, his mismatched eyes hardening into something sharp enough to cut steel. "Every single word that just came out of your mouth was pure, unfiltered bullshit."
Across from him, Hector closed his eyes slowly while pinching the bridge of his nose between gloved fingers, irritation briefly flashing across his face. "Bastion…"
"No," Bastion cut in sharply, the restraint in his words already beginning to crack beneath rising anger. "Don't you dare."
He leaned forward, his wounded hand resting against the table while blood continued dripping steadily across the wood.
"What happened to your family was tragic," Bastion admitted. "I understand why you're angry. I understand why you're hurting inside." His jaw tightened visibly. "And Gods help me, I even understand wanting revenge."
His expression twisted.
"But blaming every single person forced into chains because of what happened to you?" He shook his head in disbelief. "People born into slavery. Kids sold off by parents treating them like a bloody payday. Families ripped apart because some rich bastard wanted a heavier purse or another servant polishing silverware in his mansion." Bastion's eyes narrowed. "That's messed up beyond belief, Hector."
The chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor as Bastion suddenly rose to his feet.
"And the worst bloody part of all this," Bastion continued, towering over the table now, "is that you can sit there saying every bit of it with a straight face like it's gospel truth." His hand gestured angrily toward Hector. "You talk about slaughtering women and children like it's some grand achievement worthy of admiration."
The fury in Bastion's expression deepened further.
"Sure," Bastion said, "you can dress it up however you like. Wrap it in a pretty little bow, stamp it with laws, call it duty, justice, necessity, whatever helps you sleep at night." He shook his head slowly, fury simmering beneath his expression. "Doesn't change a damned thing."
His eyes locked onto Hector's. "They're people, Hector, not cattle. The Authority can parade you around as some kinda hero all they want," he continued, "but from where I'm standing. Hell, from where most of Avalon stands, you and your little pack of gray-coated bastards are nothing but sanctioned murderers." His jaw tightened. "That's all you are."
A bitter scoff escaped him afterward. "The only difference between you and the monsters swinging from gallows is that you've got a shiny badge pinned to your chest keeping the noose off your neck."
The words landed hard.
"You butchered people whose only crime was wanting a life beyond servitude," Bastion continued, rougher now. "Most of them probably had lives before someone ripped them away and threw collars around their necks." His breathing sharpened. "And you stand there talking about it like you're proud."
Across from him, Hector's expression had grown visibly darker now, though Bastion pressed forward regardless.
"And you know what?" he said bitterly. "I could've maybe convinced myself this was the alcohol talking. Maybe told myself you were just damaged, angry, broken inside." He shook his head slowly. "Right up until you started glorifying it."
His eyes locked firmly onto Hector's.
"There wasn't a shred of regret in anything you said." Bastion said. "Only vindication."
Bastion drew a long breath through his nose, trying and failing to suppress the anger burning inside his chest. "I suppose even within the ocean of all that bullshit there's a sliver of truth," he said after a moment. "That boy I grew up with really is gone."
A faint twitch crossed Hector's expression.
"Because if the Hector I knew were sitting here right now," Bastion continued, "he'd probably beat the ever-loving shit outta you himself, and I'd join in."
The words hung between them like drawn steel. Bastion stared at him for several long seconds afterward, as though searching desperately for some trace of the friend he once knew somewhere behind the coldness sitting across from him. But whatever hope remained inside him finally died there.
"I don't know who or what the hell is sitting across from me wearing his face," Bastion said quietly, "but the Hector I knew was twice the man you are now, and everything you've convinced yourself you could never become."
A pause followed. "And you killed him."
Hector's expression darkened further. The composure he had maintained throughout the evening finally beginning to fracture around the edges as something harsher settled behind his eyes.
"Yes…" he said at last. "I did kill him."
His gloved fist slowly tightened at his side.
"That bright-eyed boy who once looked upon this miserable world with hope," Hector continued, bitterness bleeding steadily into every syllable, "the fool who still believed honor, compassion, and righteousness were enough to save people." He shook his head faintly. "He is gone, Bastion, and I personally buried him."
The leather around his clenched hand creaked softly.
"Because just like the enslaved filth, he was weak," Hector said coldly. "He was naïve, idealistic, and utterly incapable of surviving the reality of this world." His jaw tightened. "Most of all, he was a coward."
Then Hector slowly rose from his seat, the legs of the chair scraping sharply against the wooden floor as tension instantly flooded the tavern once more.
"And furthermore," Hector said, "the sheer audacity of you standing there condemning the Authority as though the Clock Tower itself hasn't spent centuries drowning Avalon in blood is almost laughable." He raised a hand before Bastion could immediately interject, silencing him long enough to continue. "And do not misunderstand me, this was long before Burgess and his grotesque catalogue of atrocities ever entered the picture."
His dark eyes remained fixed squarely upon Bastion now.
"But let us cast all of that aside for one moment and ask a far simpler question instead." Hector leaned slightly forward. "What precisely have you done, Bastion?" He jabbed a finger toward his chest. "You speak endlessly of justice, morality, righteousness, and protecting the weak, but what have you personally accomplished as Lieutenant Reinhardt of the Clock Tower beyond nursing resentment and picking childish fights with the Authority every chance you're given?"
Bastion's expression twisted immediately.
"Because from what I have read, and from what I have heard," Hector continued coldly, "you have spent the better part of your career behaving like a disgruntled adolescent still furious at the world, still clinging to the fantasy that he can somehow change it with nothing but fists and a sword exactly the way his grandfather once did."
His jaw tightened faintly.
"And where has that left you?" Hector spread a hand slightly. "Languishing at the bottom of the hierarchy without influence, without authority, and without the power necessary to enact any meaningful change whatsoever."
Then he placed a hand lightly against his own chest.
"Everything I am," he said quietly, "everything I have achieved, every ounce of authority and power I now possess, was earned through fire, steel, sacrifice, and blood." His gaze sharpened further. "And if you believe your petty insults carry even the slightest ability to wound me, then allow me to enlighten you, old friend. There is not a single day that passes where I am not spat upon, cursed at, threatened, or treated like filth because of this."
He tapped the Authority badge pinned neatly against his chest.
"The Authority is hated," Hector admitted calmly. "Scorned. Feared. That much I accepted long ago." His words lowered afterward, colder now beneath the dim tavern light. "But hear me carefully, Bastion. Even if all of Avalon brands me a monster for what I do, even if history itself chooses to paint me as the devil standing at mankind's gates, I will still carry out my duty without hesitation."
His hand gestured toward the hilt of his katana. "And if I must drench this blade in blood to preserve order," Hector said quietly, "then so be it."
Bastion drew a sharp breath.
"By the way, those words you so confidently hurled at me just now, old friend," he said while straightening fully, "sound dangerously close to sedition against the Guild." His black eyes narrowed faintly. "Grounds for detention. Potentially prosecution beneath the Ius Servitium itself."
The two men stood across from one another in silence while the dim lanternlight stretched their shadows long across the tavern floorboards, both hands slowly drifting toward the hilts of their weapons almost on instinct. Against the walls behind them, the shadows cast by their fingers resembled sharpened claws poised to strike.
"And I suppose you're planning on dragging me in yourself?" Bastion asked through the smirk curling onto his face.
Hector regarded him steadily.
"I won't deny the temptation," he admitted calmly. "Though, I would strongly advise against forcing that particular outcome, old friend." His gaze sharpened slightly. "Things would not unfold the way you seem to believe they would."
Bastion scoffed.
"Cute." His fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword. "How about we put that to the test?"
For several long seconds neither man moved. Even the therian sisters had frozen near the kitchen entrance, watching nervously while the air between Bastion and Hector grew heavier with every passing heartbeat, tension coiling tighter and tighter like a drawn bowstring ready to snap.
Then suddenly Rem appeared beside their table. "U-um… excuse me…"
Both men turned toward her at once. The poor therian girl visibly stiffened beneath the attention, though she still bowed politely.
"I-I'm terribly sorry," she said carefully, her ears twitching anxiously atop her head, "but the izakaya is now closed for the evening." Her tail flicked behind her as she lowered her gaze slightly. "I must respectfully ask both of you to retire… if you would please."
Silence lingered again. Then, Hector exhaled deeply through his nose before slowly removing his hand from his weapon altogether, exhaustion briefly flickering across his face while he ran gloved fingers back through his dark hair.
"I suppose," he murmured dryly, "I share you agreement on one thing."
Bastion narrowed his eyes.
"The drink truly does possess a remarkable talent for turning even the wisest of men into fools."
Without another word, Hector reached into his coat and withdrew several platinum coins before placing them neatly atop the table with soft metallic clinks.
Rem's eyes widened instantly. "S-sir, this is far too much—"
Hector offered her a faint, surprisingly gentle smile.
"Consider the excess payment compensation for your hospitality," he replied smoothly before offering a polite bow of his head. "The cuisine was exceptional, and the sake positively exquisite." A softer look crossed his features for a moment. "I shall certainly return someday. Perhaps in the near future."
Then he reached down and picked up the katana resting against the wall beside him, shifting the sheathed blade comfortably into his left hand before stepping around the table. As Hector passed Rem, he slowed briefly once he stood beside Bastion, though he did not look directly at him immediately.
"Regardless of how tonight transpired," Hector said quietly while facing toward the tavern entrance, "it truly was good seeing you again, old friend."
Bastion said nothing. His expression merely hardened further.
Finally, Hector glanced back over his shoulder.
"And despite whatever hatred you may now hold toward me," he continued, "I would like you to understand that this much remains true." His gaze settled firmly onto Bastion one last time. "Some part of me will always consider you a friend."
Still, Bastion remained silent. A faint shadow crossed Hector's face.
"Though I believe I should reiterate my warning," he said calmly. "Bury that that light deep within you and snuff that rebellious fire before it consumes you entirely." His hand tightened slightly against the sheath of his blade. "Because should you ever choose to draw your sword against the Authority." A pause followed. "Against me…"
The amber crystals glinted sharply against the gold lining of his katana.
"Then understand this clearly, Bastion." Hector's words dropped into something colder. "Not even our friendship will stay my hand."
With that, Hector turned fully away, stepping toward the exit and pushed aside the hanging fabric draped across the entrance before stepping out into the moonlit streets beyond, disappearing into the quiet night while Bastion remained standing motionless amidst the dim amber glow of the nearly empty izakaya.
Bastion's gaze lingered toward the tavern entrance long after Hector had disappeared beyond it. For several moments he simply stood there motionless, jaw tight enough to ache as the weight of everything that had just transpired pressed heavily against his chest.
Then, without turning fully away from the door, he spoke through clenched teeth. "Be seeing you… old friend."
"Bastion!" Rem's sudden cry snapped him from his thoughts immediately.
He turned toward her just in time to catch the alarm spread across her face, her ears standing stiff while panic flashed visibly in her widened eyes.
"Your hand!" she exclaimed while pointing toward the table.
Only then did Bastion glance downward. Blood still dripped steadily from his palm onto the polished wood beneath him, crimson pooling between shattered ceramic fragments where the broken cup still remained scattered across the table.
For a second, he merely stared at it blankly before forcing an awkward smile onto his face. "Oh… right." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly with his uninjured hand. "Sorry about that." A nervous laugh escaped him despite himself. "Honestly, it's nothing serious. I've had worse."
Rem immediately shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. "This isn't funny, Bastion."
Before he could protest further, she had already pulled a folded white handkerchief from within the sleeve of her kimono and stepped closer, carefully taking hold of his injured hand despite the blood still dripping from it. Bastion stiffened slightly at first, though the moment her fingers gently wrapped around his wrist he found himself going unusually quiet.
Rem's expression remained focused while she wrapped the cloth carefully around his palm, tying it firmly enough to stop the bleeding without hurting him further.
"You humans are impossible sometimes," she muttered beneath her breath while tightening the knot.
Bastion opened his mouth, likely preparing some half-hearted joke in response, though Rem beat him to it immediately.
"And don't say it's 'just a scratch,'" she added sharply without even looking up. "Because it clearly isn't."
Bastion blinked.
Once the makeshift bandage had been secured, Rem finally stepped back slightly before glancing toward the rear kitchen area.
"Stay here," she said quickly. "I'm going to check if we still have medicine left in the back."
"Oh, c'mon, Rem, seriously, you don't have to—" But she was already hurrying away before he could finish protesting, her voice quickly disappearing into the kitchen as she began speaking rapidly with her sisters in a language Bastion still couldn't understand.
Left standing alone beside the table once more, Bastion let out a long, exhausted sigh before slowly lowering himself back into his chair. His eyes drifted down toward the bandaged hand resting in his lap while the events of the evening replayed endlessly through his thoughts, from Hector's words, to the coldness within them, to the look in those obsidian-black eyes as he spoke of slaughter, obedience, and fear with the same calmness another man might discuss the weather.
Yet despite all of it, despite the horror and disgust still twisting inside his chest, some stubborn, foolish part of Bastion still clung desperately to the memory of the boy he once knew. The friend who used to dream beside him.
The idiot who once swore they would both grow up, join the Tower together, and stand against the kind of monsters that preyed upon the weak. Bastion slowly curled his bandaged hand into a fist. The cloth tightened around his palm while the tavern lights dimmed further overhead and the night outside deepened into silence.
And somehow, despite Hector being long gone from the room already, the weight sitting inside Bastion's chest only grew heavier still.