A fortnight had passed since the beginning of the new term, and despite the tension that continued to hang over Excalibur in the wake of Headmaster Blaise's announcement and the formation of the Disciplinary Committee, life carried on with remarkable persistence. Classes resumed. Assignments accumulated. Students filled the corridors, courtyards, and common rooms as they always had, and though the atmosphere had undeniably changed, the academy itself seemed determined to move forward.
The decision to have the entire student body repeat the previous academic year remained deeply unpopular amongst much of the student population. To many, it felt like yet another theft committed by the men responsible for the Siege, another consequence forced upon them by the Clock Tower and the monsters who had once occupied its highest offices. They had stolen more than lives. They had stolen opportunities, ambitions, and precious time that could never truly be recovered. Every repeated examination, every postponed graduation, and every delayed career served as a constant reminder of what had been taken from them.
That resentment revealed itself whenever a Guardian in grey crossed their path while out in Caerleon. Conversations quieted. Stares lingered a little longer than they should have. Whispers followed in their wake. The hatred directed toward the Clock Tower and the fiend who had once sat upon its highest chair remained fresh in the minds of many.
Yet not everyone viewed the repeated term as a punishment.
For some students, the decision had become an unexpected opportunity. Those who had struggled during the previous year suddenly found themselves gifted with a second chance, while others viewed it as an opportunity to improve their standing, strengthen their skills, and pursue ambitions that had previously seemed beyond their reach. To them, the shadow hanging over Caerleon represented a setback rather than an ending, and they threw themselves into their studies with renewed determination.
Even so, Excalibur remained Excalibur.
Between lectures, examinations, assignments, and extracurricular activities, members of the Congregation continued balancing their academic lives with their responsibilities as contractors, adventurers, and Clan members. Despite Lucian's public challenge and the growing tension surrounding the Disciplinary Committee, Clan activity had hardly slowed. What had once been a gathering place where students mingled, placed wagers, and battled for coin and prestige within the shadows had evolved into something far greater.
Across Avalon, the reputations of certain Clans had spread well beyond the walls of Caerleon.
Their names travelled through forests and mountain passes, from isolated settlements to thriving cities. Merchants spoke of them. Village elders sought their assistance. Nobles requested their services. With reputation came demand, and with demand came coin. Word of mouth, written recommendations, and glowing reviews carried successful Clans throughout Avalon.
Few names carried more weight than The Marauders.
The Clan of the Lion of Ignis.
The Clan of the Hero of Caerleon.
Despite informing the Congregation that they were operating under a self-imposed hiatus while focusing on their studies, Godric and his friends found themselves inundated with requests. They occasionally accepted smaller commissions during weekends or after classes, but even Godric understood the dangers of stretching themselves too thin.
Even while life settled into a familiar routine, he could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. Lucian and his newly appointed Head Prefects had remained remarkably quiet during the past two weeks, and that silence unsettled him more than any open confrontation could have. Every instinct he possessed warned him that whatever had been set into motion during that assembly had not simply disappeared.
The Disciplinary Committee remained new, untested, and largely inactive, yet Godric found himself increasingly convinced that the quiet surrounding them was merely temporary. It felt less like peace and more like the calm that often preceded a storm, leaving him with the growing certainty that Excalibur would eventually find itself plunged into yet another crisis.
Once again, Godric and his friends found themselves gathered within Professor Lotho's classroom while the halfling professor droned through another chapter of Avalonian history. Today's lecture concerned the Age of Peace that followed the Warring Nations, though Professor Lotho appeared almost as interested in the arrangement of his classroom as he did in the material itself. Every few minutes he would pause to straighten a crooked pencil, adjust a stack of parchment, or realign a pile of books that had shifted by the smallest fraction of an inch.
The classroom itself was sizeable, designed in the style of a lecture theatre with descending rows of desks overlooking the central floor where Professor Lotho taught. Warm autumn sunlight streamed through the tall windows, bathing the room in amber light while carrying with it the scent of damp earth, withering leaves, and the approaching chill of fall.
Unfortunately for everyone present, the lecture itself proved considerably less engaging than the scenery beyond the windows.
Rowena remained attentive as always, her quill moving steadily across parchment while she dutifully recorded every detail Professor Lotho provided. Jeanne sat nearby, equally focused, following the lecture with genuine interest. The rest of the class, however, appeared engaged in a collective struggle against exhaustion.
Godric sat slumped against the back of his chair, fighting the increasingly difficult battle of keeping his eyes open. Salazar maintained a stone-faced expression with his arms folded tightly across his chest while one finger tapped rhythmically against his sleeve, the repeated motion suggesting a man exercising tremendous restraint for the sake of preserving his own sanity. Beside him, Helga had practically collapsed across her desk, her arms sprawled across the tabletop while her chin rested atop them. Her half-lidded eyes stared toward the front of the classroom with all the enthusiasm of someone serving out a prison sentence, and from the look on her face, she would have gladly traded places with almost anyone else in Avalon if it meant escaping Professor Lotho's lecture.
"Now then, the age of the Warring Nations lasted approximately a century and began nearly four hundred years after the end of the Calamity and the fall of Lord Sarkon," Professor Lotho said as the tip of his chalk tapped rhythmically against the blackboard. Fine white dust drifted from the strokes as he carefully wrote the dates in neat, painstakingly symmetrical script. "Can anyone tell me the catalyst that sparked the Great War of the Warring Nations?"
Rowena's hand shot into the air before he had even finished speaking.
"Of course," Lotho said, adjusting his glasses. "Miss Ravenclaw, if you would be so kind."
"The Warring Nations period, more commonly referred to as the Hundred Years War," Rowena began, sitting a little straighter in her seat, "was a prolonged series of intermittent conflicts fought between the then Seven Kingdoms of Avalon over territory, influence, and political dominance. The conflict began during the reign of Emperor Goethe of the Redian Empire, who sought to unite all of Avalon beneath his banner through a military campaign known as the Great Reunification."
"Blimey," Godric muttered under his breath, "you'd think that after surviving the Calamity, the people of Avalon would've developed a healthy distrust of power-crazy rulers trying to put everyone under one crown."
"Greed has never been a particularly rational thing, dear friend," Salazar replied without looking away from the front of the room. "Power and authority are intoxicating. Far more intoxicating than most substances, especially when one possesses enough of either to convince themselves that consequences no longer apply to them."
Helga, still draped across her desk, let out a quiet hum. "Sounds a lot like Burgess."
Salazar inclined his head slightly.
"Precisely like Burgess," he said. "Though from what I've read, Emperor Goethe would likely have considered the former Director a rather modest amateur."
Godric grimaced. "That's a terrifying thought."
Beside them, Rowena continued uninterrupted.
"At the time, Avalon remained deeply fragmented. During the reign of King Uther the Fourth, the Seven Kingdoms maintained diplomatic relations with one another, but there were no formal alliances, mutual defense agreements, or continental accords binding them together."
Her expression softened slightly. "As a result, when the Redian Empire launched its campaign, the kingdoms failed to present a united front. Rather than standing together against a common threat, many saw the conflict as an opportunity to advance their own interests. Old rivalries resurfaced, territorial disputes reignited, and alliances shifted constantly. Before long, the Seven Kingdoms found themselves fighting one another just as fiercely as they fought the Empire."
"Which I'm sure," Jeanne observed quietly, "is exactly what Emperor Goethe wanted."
"Indeed," Rowena replied. "A divided enemy is considerably easier to conquer than a united one."
Professor Lotho nodded approvingly while making a small note on the blackboard. "An excellent observation, Miss Ravenclaw. Ten points to Ventus."
"History has repeatedly demonstrated that nations rarely fall because their enemies are stronger." He tapped the chalk against the board. "More often than not, they fall because they are incapable of setting aside their differences long enough to recognize the greater threat standing before them." His gaze swept across the classroom. "The Seven Kingdoms learned that lesson the hard way."
Professor Lotho clapped his hands together, drawing everyone's attention back to the front of the classroom.
"Now then, who can tell me how it ended?" he asked. "And I shall award additional points to anyone capable of explaining the aftermath as well."
Before anyone else could even consider answering, Rowena's hand once again shot into the air.
Helga grinned as she glanced between Godric and Salazar. "At this rate, Rowena's going to be the sole reason Ventus wins the Avalon Cup."
"At that, I have absolutely no doubt," Salazar replied, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
"Miss Ravenclaw," Professor Lotho said with an approving nod.
"Most people assume it was King Uther who ultimately united the Six Kingdoms and led them against the Redian Empire," Rowena began. "However, that isn't entirely accurate. While Uther played a significant role, the true turning point came with the formation of an alliance unlike any Avalon had ever seen. From the fires of war emerged a brotherhood that would eventually become known as the Order of the Seven, seven knights bound not by loyalty to a king, lord, or sovereign, but by their devotion to Avalon itself."
Godric immediately sat upright in his chair. "Wait," he said, raising his hand. "The Order of the Seven?"
Rowena paused while Professor Lotho turned toward him.
"Sorry for interrupting," Godric continued, "but who exactly were the Order of the Seven?"
"Ah," Lotho said, a sly smile spreading across his face. "At last, a topic capable of keeping Mister Gryffindor awake."
Laughter rippled through the classroom while Godric flushed red.
"Now, as Miss Ravenclaw mentioned, the Order of the Seven was a brotherhood, or perhaps a cabal, depending on one's perspective. Their origins remain frustratingly obscure because the founders themselves never revealed their true identities. What we do know is that there were seven of them, and bound by a strict code of honor."
He paused briefly. "We also know that they were hedge knights, more specifically, lordless knights."
Godric frowned thoughtfully. "My Uncle Gareth used that term before, but I never really understood it. How can there be knights without kings or lords? I thought only kings or nobles could knight someone."
"Ordinarily, that would be true in many nations," Professor Lotho replied. "However, Avalon has always operated somewhat differently. Here, any knight may create another knight. A squire is often knighted by the very knight they serve under. Those already attached to a lord, king, emperor, or noble house simply enter that lord's service. Those who lack such ties become wanderers, travelling Avalon in search of a master worthy of their oath."
"So… they're mercenaries?" Helga asked.
"A rather charitable interpretation would be wandering champions," Lotho replied dryly. "A less charitable one would indeed be sellswords with better manners."
A few students chuckled.
"As an additional piece of trivia," Lotho continued, clearly pleased by the sudden interest in the lesson, "when a knight is formally knighted, they are granted a Renātus, or Knight Name, symbolizing their rebirth into a new life and purpose. The name is bestowed by the individual performing the knighting and often reflects the ideals or virtues they are expected to embody."
"That is admittedly rather cool," Godric admitted.
"It is," Helga agreed.
"It is also grotesquely off topic," Professor Lotho said, waving a hand dismissively before the discussion could derail entirely. "Miss Ravenclaw, if you would be so kind as to continue."
Rowena cleared her throat before continuing.
"The Order of the Seven rose amidst the height of the conflict," she said. "Through their courage, leadership, and unwavering reputation, they gathered followers from every corner of Avalon. Peasants, knights, mercenaries, mages, and nobles alike rallied behind them, forming a force that eventually grew powerful enough to challenge entire kingdoms."
She glanced briefly at her notes before continuing.
"It took decades, but alongside King Uther's armies from Camelot, the Order travelled from kingdom to kingdom, forging alliances where diplomacy remained possible and overthrowing tyrants where it did not. One by one, the Six Kingdoms were brought together beneath a common banner, much in the same way King Uther the First and the Five Heroes had united Avalon against Lord Sarkon centuries before. Through a combination of diplomacy, military campaigns, and sheer determination, they succeeded where generations of rulers had failed, creating a united front strong enough to stand against the Redian Empire."
The classroom had grown noticeably more attentive by now.
"Eventually, the Redian Empire was defeated, its armies shattered, its territories occupied, and its authority dismantled until little remained of the empire that had once sought to bring all of Avalon beneath its rule." Rowena's expression hardened slightly. "Emperor Goethe, in all his cruelty, tyranny, and obsession with conquest, became only the third individual in recorded history to be sentenced to execution by Avis Dilaceratus."
The reaction was immediate. Jeanne's eyes widened at the revelation, while beside her Godric straightened in his chair and Helga's earlier lethargy vanished almost entirely. Even Salazar, who rarely looked surprised by anything, seemed taken aback by what he had just heard.
"Indeed," Professor Lotho said, his expression darkening. "A distinction few individuals throughout history have ever earned, and even fewer would envy."
He adjusted his glasses before continuing.
"As an additional piece of trivia, Emperor Goethe's execution lasted several days. Many historians believe the sentence was intentionally prolonged as a response to the near century of devastation, bloodshed, and suffering his ambitions inflicted upon Avalon."
An uneasy murmur passed through the classroom.
Rowena drew another breath.
"In the aftermath of the Warring Nations, the Redian Empire ceased to exist altogether. Several kingdoms that had actively supported the conflict met similar fates, their territories seized and redistributed amongst the victors, while new nations gradually emerged from the ruins left behind. Over time, the political landscape of Avalon shifted dramatically, transforming from Seven Kingdoms into Twelve."
She turned a page in her notes.
"However, the most significant consequence came two years later, when the rulers of all Twelve Kingdoms reached a unanimous conclusion that such a catastrophe could never be permitted to happen again. In response, they established the Separation of Powers, dividing authority amongst three independent institutions: the Wizarding Council, the Council of Kings, and the Mage's Association of the Three Bodies, consisting of the Wandering Sea, the Atlas Institute, and..." She hesitated briefly before finishing. "The Clock Tower."
The mention of the institution immediately drew groans from several students scattered throughout the lecture hall. Professor Lotho raised a hand before the reaction could spread any further.
"Students, please."
The complaints subsided, though many expressions remained distinctly sour.
"I understand that the Clock Tower has become something of a sore subject for many of you, and believe me, I do not blame you," Lotho said. "However, regardless of recent events, they remain a legitimate institution within Avalon's governmental structure. History does not cease to exist simply because we dislike parts of it, nor does it become any less important because those who inherited it later disgraced themselves."
His gaze swept slowly across the lecture theatre.
"We are not obligated to admire history, celebrate it, or even agree with it, but we do have a responsibility to acknowledge it, because those who refuse to learn from the past often find themselves repeating it."
"With all due respect, Professor," Salazar interjected from his seat, "I fear we moved beyond that point quite some time ago. As a people, we appear remarkably committed to repeating our mistakes, often with considerably more enthusiasm than those who came before us."
A ripple of laughter spread throughout the classroom, though there was enough truth in the statement that more than a few students looked uncomfortable.
Professor Lotho regarded him for a moment before a weary smile appeared.
"To that, Mister Slytherin, I am afraid you and I are in complete agreement," he admitted with a sigh. "Unfortunately, history has never suffered from a shortage of people convinced that their mistakes will somehow produce better results than everyone else's."
Professor Lotho's gaze returned to Rowena, and a look of genuine approval crossed the halfling's features as he clasped his hands together.
"Still, well done, Miss Ravenclaw. I see that you continue a tradition established by both your father and your brother before you, and I must say that your diligence remains every bit as impressive. As promised, twenty points to Ventus."
A faint blush touched Rowena's cheeks as she settled back into her seat, though the satisfaction she felt was short-lived. Murmurs soon began drifting down from the higher rows of the lecture theatre, drawing Godric's attention upward toward clusters of students whispering amongst themselves. Some cast irritated glances in Rowena's direction, while others looked at her with open disdain, and although they attempted to keep their voices low, they were not nearly quiet enough.
Rowena heard them, and Godric saw the moment her smile faded. Beside him, Helga and Salazar had noticed it as well, their attention shifting toward the offending students at almost the exact same moment. When several pairs of eyes met theirs, Godric casually rested a hand upon the hilt of the sword leaning against his desk, a gesture so subtle that Professor Lotho never noticed it and yet obvious enough that the whispers quickly died away. Students suddenly found great interest in their notes, the ceiling, the windows, or anywhere else that wasn't the increasingly unimpressed trio seated below them.
"Now then," Professor Lotho continued, either blissfully unaware of the exchange or choosing not to acknowledge it, "are there any further questions regarding the Warring Nations?"
Godric raised a hand.
"Yes, Mister Gryffindor?"
"What happened to the Order of the Seven?" he asked. "Are they still around?"
Professor Lotho drew a thoughtful breath before answering. "Unfortunately, no. The Order disbanded decades ago. Following the end of the Warring Nations, the brotherhood continued operating independently of any kingdom or crown, with its members travelling throughout Avalon offering aid where it was needed, defending the vulnerable, and righting injustices wherever they encountered them. For generations, earning a place amongst the Seven was considered the highest honor a knight could hope to achieve."
Godric leaned forward slightly. "Then, why did they disappear?"
"That, Mister Gryffindor, remains one of Avalon's greatest mysteries, second perhaps only to Caliburn itself," Lotho replied, adjusting his glasses. "Even my colleagues within the Wandering Sea have never managed to uncover a definitive answer. Their members either passed into history or faded into obscurity, leaving little behind beyond legends, fragmented records, and an abundance of speculation."
He tapped his temple. "Some historians believe corruption eventually found its way into their ranks, while others argue that they simply believed their purpose had been fulfilled and that their watch had come to an end."
He paused for a moment before continuing.
"However, during the height of the Order's influence, there lived one knight who became something of a legend even amongst legends."
The statement seemed to cut cleanly through the lingering boredom hanging over the lecture hall, drawing the attention of students who had spent most of the lesson struggling to stay awake.
"This knight began life as a hedge knight scarcely older than many of you seated here today. Over time, he earned renown throughout all Twelve Kingdoms for his courage, honor, and unwavering commitment to justice. Kings sought his counsel. Nobles feared his judgement. Common folk sang songs of his deeds, and stories of his exploits travelled so far that even distant kingdoms knew his name."
Professor Lotho's expression grew thoughtful. "What made him remarkable, however, was not simply his reputation."
The room remained silent.
"It was the fact that he, in fact, was mundane."
Helga immediately straightened in her chair. "Wait, mundane as in completely mundane?"
"As in, completely devoid of magic, Miss Hufflepuff," Professor Lotho replied. "Yet despite that, he repeatedly defeated some of the most powerful mages and warriors of his age armed with little more than a sword, his armor, and a determination that bordered on madness. One account even claims that he held the entire Western Front alone against an army nearly three hundred strong, maintaining the line long enough for reinforcements to arrive."
The revelation drew no shortage of stunned looks throughout the classroom. Jeanne appeared genuinely impressed, Helga looked fascinated, and even Godric found himself sitting a little straighter as he tried to imagine a single man standing against such impossible odds.
"Blimey," he muttered.
"Quite," Professor Lotho agreed.
"And does this legendary knight have a name?" Salazar asked, genuine interest finally replacing the boredom that had plagued him for most of the lecture.
"His birth name has long since been lost to history," Professor Lotho replied, "but throughout Avalon, amongst kings, nobles, commoners, the Councils, and even the Three Bodies themselves, he remains remembered as a symbol of truth, honor, and justice."
He allowed the anticipation to build for a brief moment before continuing.
"Arslan the Red."
Godric repeated the name quietly beneath his breath, rolling it around in his mind while something about it felt oddly familiar. Rowena's eyes immediately shifted toward him.
"Arslan is a foreign word for lion," she pointed out. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think they were talking about you."
Godric groaned and rubbed the back of his head while several students nearby chuckled. "Come on, Rowena."
"Perhaps she has a point," Salazar mused, resting his chin upon his hand as his emerald eyes settled thoughtfully on Godric. "A brave lion renowned for charging headfirst into danger, possessing a questionable regard for his own safety, and somehow surviving circumstances that should have killed him several times over."
Helga immediately nodded, her grin widening as she looked between Godric and Salazar.
"When you put it that way, the resemblance is almost uncanny. He's called The Red and with your red hair, red eyes, and the fact you practically swing a sword around." She gestured broadly toward Godric. "Honestly, all he's missing is your face."
Godric let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. "Oh, har har. Real funny."
"Still," Salazar said, resting his chin upon his hand as a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, "I must admit that I find the comparison rather curious. The existence of another individual who apparently solved most of life's problems through a combination of swordsmanship, stubbornness, and an almost supernatural refusal to stay down does strike me as familiar." A quiet chuckle escaped him as his emerald eyes settled upon Godric. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he reminds me of—"
The words abruptly caught in his throat.
For a brief moment, the amusement vanished from Salazar's face entirely as something seemed to occur to him. His eyes widened ever so slightly, not enough for most of the classroom to notice, but more than enough for Godric, who had spent years learning to read the subtle shifts in his friend's expressions.
"Reminds you of who?" Godric asked, immediately sensing that whatever thought had crossed Salazar's mind had not been an insignificant one.
Salazar remained silent for a second longer before shaking his head and dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. "Forgive me, dear friend. It was a foolish thought." A small smile returned to his face, though it failed to reach his eyes. "Think nothing of it."
Godric narrowed his eyes. "Salazar, we've known each other far too long for that to work."
"Perhaps," Salazar replied smoothly, "but that has never stopped me from trying."
Godric opened his mouth to press the issue further, only for Professor Lotho's voice to carry across the lecture theatre before he could do so.
"Now that we've sufficiently derailed today's lesson," the halfling remarked dryly, earning a few scattered chuckles from the classroom, "let us return to King Uther the Fourth and the political landscape that emerged following the Warring Nations. Kindly turn to page four hundred and thirty-two and direct your attention to the third paragraph."
A chorus of groans followed the instruction as textbooks were reluctantly opened throughout the lecture hall. Godric reached for his own book and began flipping through the pages, though his attention continued drifting back toward Salazar, whose expression had become unusually distant. Whatever realization had nearly escaped him moments earlier clearly remained at the forefront of his mind, and although Godric eventually turned his attention toward the lesson, he made a mental note to revisit the subject later, perhaps over dinner when there would be far fewer opportunities for Salazar to avoid the conversation.
****
The bells of Excalibur's Clock Tower rang out across Crossroads City, their deep brass knells rolling over rooftops and avenues alike as evening settled upon Caerleon. The sun was already sinking beyond the distant horizon, painting the western sky in shades of crimson, amber, and gold while the first hints of autumn's chill drifted through the streets. With each passing day the evenings arrived a little sooner, the warmth lingering a little less, and though winter remained some distance away, its approach could already be felt in the sharp bite of the wind that swept between buildings and across open squares.
Throughout the city, crystal streetlamps flickered to life in succession, casting warm amber light across cobblestone roads and polished stone walkways while storefronts illuminated their displays to entice the evening crowds. The scent of fresh bread, roasted meats, pastries, and sweet confections drifted from bakeries and taverns alike, mingling with the more unusual smells found not only in Caerleon, but cities across Avalon.
Where the byproducts of magic and industry combined into a strangely familiar aroma that lingered somewhere between seared sugar and burnt steel. Above the streets, thin plumes of exhaust rose from chimneys, workshops, and arcane machinery, sparkling faintly as they caught the light before disappearing into the darkening sky.
To anyone unfamiliar with what had transpired only months earlier, the Crossroads City might have appeared prosperous, lively, and entirely untouched by tragedy. Merchants haggled with customers from behind brightly decorated stalls, students wandered the streets in small groups while discussing lessons and weekend plans, and families carried baskets overflowing with purchases as they made their way home before darkness fully settled over the city. Life had returned to the streets with remarkable determination, yet for those who had witnessed the Siege firsthand, the scars remained impossible to ignore.
Ryan certainly noticed them.
Dressed in a beige shirt beneath a matching overcoat, with black jeans, dark leather gloves, and a red-and-gold scarf wrapped securely around his neck, he made his way through the evening crowds while his dark eyes wandered across the familiar streets. Everywhere he looked he found reminders of what the city had endured. Newly reconstructed walls stood where entire buildings had once collapsed. Sections of road bore stonework that was noticeably newer than the surrounding pavement.
A cigarette rested between his teeth, its ember glowing faintly in the cold as smoke curled upward into the late afternoon sky, while each slow inhale dragged charred heat down his throat and into his lungs, mixing with the bite of the autumn air until the burn felt almost cleansing.
Here and there, faint scorch marks remained visible despite countless attempts to scrub them away. Most people no longer paid attention to such things, having chosen instead to focus on rebuilding and moving forward, but Ryan remembered all too clearly what those same streets had looked like when smoke still hung over the city, when blood stained the cobblestones, and when the sound of mourning had echoed through districts now filled with laughter once again.
Caerleon had survived, and it was undoubtedly recovering, yet Ryan could not shake the feeling that too many people had mistaken recovery for resolution. The wounds left behind by the Siege had not simply vanished because the rubble had been cleared away, and nowhere was that more apparent than within Excalibur itself.
The thought immediately brought his mind back to Headmaster Blaise and the announcement that continued to irritate him days after the fact.
No matter how many lectures he taught, no matter how deeply he buried himself in lesson plans, grading, and attempting to drag unwilling students through the fundamentals of calculus, the issue refused to leave him alone. The formation of the Disciplinary Committee, Lucian Graymark's ambitions, and the increasingly fragile balance between the Congregation and the academy all lingered at the forefront of his thoughts, creating a constant sense of unease that only seemed to grow with each passing day. Ryan had voiced his concerns repeatedly, outlining every potential disaster he could foresee and making it abundantly clear that the situation carried far greater risks than many seemed willing to acknowledge, yet despite every warning he had offered, Blaise had chosen to proceed anyway.
That was the part Ryan found most infuriating.
It was not merely the decision itself that bothered him, but the apparent willingness to dismiss the consequences as though they were distant possibilities rather than outcomes that seemed increasingly inevitable. Excalibur had barely emerged from one catastrophe, and now someone had decided that introducing another source of tension into an already volatile environment was somehow a reasonable course of action.
Ryan let out a low scoff and shoved his gloved hands deeper into his pockets while continuing down the crowded street. His jaw remained tight, his shoulders tense beneath his coat, and the knot of irritation that had been steadily coiling within him for the better part of two weeks showed no signs of loosening.
More than anything, he wanted a drink, preferably one strong enough to burn all the way down and dull the frustration simmering beneath the surface, because if he had to endure one more conversation about how everything was perfectly under control, there was a very real possibility that whatever patience he still possessed would finally give out. Considering the direction things were heading, Ryan suspected that would happen long before the semester ended.
As Ryan crossed the narrow path leading between two apartment buildings and toward a small playground tucked away between them, the sounds of children at play blended with the distant murmur of Caerleon's evening crowds. At first there was nothing unusual about it. Laughter echoed between the swings and climbing frames while older children barked instructions at younger ones in the middle of some elaborate game only they fully understood, creating the sort of harmless chaos that seemed to exist in every playground regardless of where one happened to be in the world.
Then he heard something that didn't belong.
"Stop it!" The cry rose above the laughter, sharp with panic and fear. "Stop hurting me!"
As those words reached him, something unpleasant stirred within Ryan's chest and dragged old memories to the surface whether he welcomed them or not. For the briefest moment the playground before him faded beneath recollections of the orphanage, of another frightened girl caught in the middle of someone else's cruelty, of boys too cowardly to confront him directly and willing instead to hurt someone weaker simply because they could.
He remembered racing through the building. He remembered blood on his knuckles, broken teeth scattered across concrete, and the sight of boys who had once carried themselves with swagger and confidence suddenly begging for mercy. Looking back, Ryan often considered that day the moment his life had changed course. It was the first time he had discovered how satisfying violence could feel when directed at people who deserved it, and the first step down a road that would eventually place weapons in his hands and far darker choices before him.
The memory lingered as his gaze settled upon the playground itself, and with every step he took the scene became clearer. What initially appeared to be nothing more than a cluster of children gathered near the center of the play area quickly revealed itself to be something far uglier. They were surrounding someone. More than that, they were kicking, shoving, and striking a small figure curled tightly upon the ground, and it took Ryan only a few moments to realize that the victim could not have been more than five years old.
The child had folded herself into a protective ball, tiny hands covering her head while sobs shook her entire body. Short pink hair spilled across her face, partially obscuring tear-stained features twisted with fear and pain. Her skin was tanned, though portions of her arms and legs were covered in scales resembling natural gauntlets, while dark claws curled helplessly against the dirt beneath her. A scaled tail remained tucked tightly between her legs and a pair of small wings wrapped around her shoulders as though she could somehow disappear inside them if she made herself small enough.
Ryan felt his jaw tighten as he drew in a long, slow drag from the cigarette before he pulled it from his lips and flicked it to the ground with a sharp snap of his fingers. He then then exhaled a thick plume of smoke as he stepped into the playground.
"Hey!" he called out.
A few heads turned in his direction, though not enough of them and certainly not quickly enough. The smaller girl continued crying while several of the children continued kicking at her, either dismissing him outright or assuming he wasn't their problem, which only ensured that by the time Ryan reached them he had absolutely no interest in handling the situation politely.
His hand shot out without hesitation, catching the oldest boy by the back of his shirt before hauling him bodily away from the girl. The child let out a startled yelp as his feet briefly left the ground, and the sudden intervention finally shocked the rest of the group into stillness as every eye turned toward the angry stranger who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
"Back off, now!" Ryan barked.
The younger children immediately stumbled away from the girl, though the boy dangling in Ryan's grip responded by thrashing wildly and trying to wrench himself free.
"Hey, let go of me!" he cried. "Let me go now!"
Ryan released him, allowing the boy to stumble awkwardly onto his feet before jerking his chin toward the nearest exit. "Get lost, kid." He swept his gaze across the rest of them. "All of you."
Several of the younger children looked ready to run then and there, but the oldest boy was clearly too proud to retreat in front of his friends. Two other boys moved to stand beside him, drawing confidence from one another's presence despite the uncertainty creeping into their expressions.
"Yeah, or what?" the older kid said with a smirk that looked far less convincing than he probably intended. "The hell you're gonna do about it, old man?"
Ryan turned toward them fully, and whatever amusement the boy had been clinging to begun to disappear beneath the weight of that stare. Years spent around killers, soldiers, mercenaries, and monsters had left Ryan with a particular expression that occasionally surfaced when he stopped pretending to be civil, and the unfortunate reality was that even children could recognize genuine danger when they saw it.
"You kiss your mom with that mouth?" Ryan asked with a grimace, looking the boy up and down as if he were trying to decide whether to be disgusted or disappointed. "What are you, ten?"
"Twelve, shithead," the ringleader snapped.
Ryan stared at him for a second, then shook his head with a slow, humorless breath. "Twelve," he repeated. "Jesus freakin' Christ, kid, that ain't the pass you think it is."
He took one measured step forward "All that proves is that you're old enough to know better, but still enough of an asshole not to care, and you know somethin'?" Ryan continued as his dark eyes stayed locked on the ringleader. "I've met a whole lot of people over the years who thought they were tough. Most of 'em were bigger than you, older than you, meaner than you, and a hell of a lot better at being dangerous, but somehow, every last one of them ended up making the exact same mistake."
The sneer on the ringleader's face began to falter while the two boys beside him exchanged uneasy glances and subtly shifted their footing, their bravado already beginning to crumble.
"They figured bein' surrounded by scared, pathetic, little assholes just like 'em made 'em untouchable. Made 'em feel important. They figured pickin' on somebody smaller, somebody weaker, meant they actually mattered." Ryan's words never rose. If anything, it grew quieter. "Then one day they run into somebody who wasn't in the mood for their bullshit, and suddenly they found out the hard way what's it like chewing breakfast without any teeth."
Another step carried him closer, and all three boys instinctively backed away despite themselves. The color draining steadily from their faces.
"So, here's what's gonna happen," Ryan continued, stopping just close enough that none of them could mistake the warning in his eyes. "You're gonna grab your friends, you're gonna high-tail it outta here, and you're gonna spend the rest of the day thankin' whatever gods you pray to that you ran into me on one of my better days."
A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Because believe me when I tell you, I've done a helluva lot worse than yell at a bunch of dumb kids, and right now you're standin' real close to findin' out exactly where my patience runs out. Now skidaddle before you really piss me off."
Whatever courage had been keeping them rooted to the spot vanished almost immediately. The color drained from their faces so quickly it was almost impressive, and although the ringleader looked as though he wanted to say something in return, survival instincts ultimately won out over pride. He turned first, bolting for the exit without another word, while the others followed so quickly they nearly tripped over one another in their haste to escape. Several glanced back over their shoulders as they ran, checking to see whether Ryan had decided to pursue them, but he merely stood there watching until the last of them disappeared around the corner.
Only then did he turn his attention back toward the small dragon girl still curled upon the ground, and as he looked at the trembling child trying desperately to make herself invisible, the anger that had moments earlier been directed at the bullies gave way to something else entirely.
Ryan dropped to one knee and offered the little girl his hand, taking care to keep his movements slow and unthreatening as he met her frightened gaze. "It's okay," he said gently. "You're alright."
She stared at him for a moment without moving, the pink irises of her serpentine eyes glistening with tears that threatened to spill over at any second, and as Ryan took a closer look, his expression gradually darkened. Two pink horns protruded from her forehead and curled back against her scalp, but neither was whole. One had been snapped at the tip while a jagged crack ran through the other, the damage fresh enough to make his stomach twist unpleasantly.
The girl hesitated, uncertainty written plainly across her face, before finally placing her small hand into his. Ryan gently helped her to her feet and brushed the dirt from her dress, revealing fabric so old and worn that it seemed to consist of more patches than original cloth. The material was stained, faded by years of use, and repaired in countless places with mismatched scraps that had been carefully sewn together by someone who clearly could not afford to replace it.
"There you go," Ryan said, offering her a warm smile. "All better."
For the briefest moment, the corners of her mouth twitched, though the sadness lingering in her eyes never quite disappeared. Ryan glanced over his shoulder toward the direction the other children had run before returning his attention to her. "What happened?"
The little girl sniffled and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, struggling to compose herself long enough to answer. "I-I just wanted to play with them," she said quietly, trembling despite her efforts to steady it. "And then they..." Her lower lip quivered as fresh tears gathered in her eyes. "They were so mean."
Ryan let out a slow breath and shook his head, the answer angering him far more than he allowed her to see. "Yeah," he said softly. "They were, weren't they?" He crouched a little closer so she wouldn't have to look up so far to meet his gaze. "But listen to me, kiddo, none of that was your fault. Sometimes people see somebody who's different and decide that's enough reason to be cruel, but that says a whole lot more about them than it does about you."
He reached out and gently brushed a tear from her cheek, his expression softening even further.
"And they won't be hurting you again," he said, the quiet certainty in his words carrying far more weight than any threat could have. "I promise."
"Evie!"
Both Ryan and the little girl turned toward the shout, their attention immediately drawn to a second dragon girl racing through the crowd. She looked older by several years, with ivory-white scales that gleamed beneath the golden light of the setting autumn sun, long white hair flowing behind her as she ran, and amber serpentine eyes filled with frantic concern. She scanned the area desperately until she spotted Evie standing beside Ryan, and the relief that washed across her face was so immediate that it was almost painful to witness.
She hurried the rest of the distance and dropped to one knee in front of her, immediately reaching up to brush tangled strands of hair away from the younger girl's face. "I've been looking everywhere for you!" she exclaimed, though the relief in her words quickly gave way to alarm as she noticed the dirt covering her dress, the tears staining her cheeks, and the damage to her horns. Her eyes widened. "By Io... what happened to you?"
"Nora..."
The name left Evie's lips as little more than a sob before whatever composure she had managed to gather completely fell apart. She threw herself into the older girl's arms and clung to her desperately, burying her face against her shoulder as tears streamed freely down her cheeks.
"They hurt me," she cried. "All I wanted was to be friends."
Nora wrapped both arms around her without hesitation and pulled her close. One hand cradled the back of Evie's head while the other moved in slow circles across her back, silently reassuring her that she was safe.
A look of quiet heartbreak settled across Nora's features as she listened. "I know," she murmured, tightening her embrace slightly.
"I don't understand." Evie buried her face deeper against her shoulder. "W-why do they hate us so much?"
For a moment Nora said nothing. The question clearly wasn't new, nor was the pain behind it, and Ryan could see from the look in her eyes that she had asked herself the very same thing more times than anyone should ever have to.
"I told you before, Evie," Nora said at last as she held the younger girl a little closer. "We're not like them." There was no anger in her words, no bitterness directed toward the children who had hurt her, only the weary ache of someone who had learned that lesson through years of experience. "But that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with us."
Evie slowly lifted her head.
Nora smiled through the moisture gathering in her eyes and gently brushed a tear from the younger girl's cheek. "You hear me?" she asked. "Nothing. There's absolutely nothing wrong with you or me. We're perfectly fine the way we are."
Evie gave a small, uncertain nod.
"That's right," Nora said, pressing her forehead gently against hers. "It's okay. I've got you."
Wrapped securely in Nora's embrace, with Ryan standing nearby and no sign of the children who had hurt her, some of the fear finally began to leave Evie's eyes, replaced by the fragile comfort that comes from knowing somebody is there to catch you when the world decides to be cruel.
"Oh, my Gods!"
The alarmed shout cut across the street, and Ryan turned toward it just as a middle-aged man came striding through the thinning crowd with the hurried, uneven gait of someone who had run farther than his lungs could comfortably allow. His short black hair had been neatly combed at some point earlier in the day, though sweat and hard work had loosened it into fraying strands around his forehead, and his modest clothes, a plain shirt beneath a worn jacket, thick work trousers, and beige boots darkened by dust and use, carried the unmistakable scent of sweat, grease, and sawdust.
Whatever trade he worked in, it left evidence clinging to him, from the pale flecks caught in the seams of his sleeves to the roughness in his hands. In one of those hands, he had the boy from earlier gripped by the back of his shirt, dragging him along with enough force that the child stumbled every few steps, pale-faced and nervous beneath the weight of what he must have known was coming.
Ryan's eyes narrowed slightly as the man stopped in front of him, still holding the boy like he feared the moment he let go the kid would bolt back into the street and disappear.
"Heard what happened and came here as fast as I could," the man said, breathing hard as he gave the boy's shirt another sharp tug, more out of anger than necessity.
Ryan studied him for a moment, taking in the concern twisted together with frustration on the man's face, before asking, "And you are?"
"Oh, right," the man said, quickly wiping one hand along his trousers before extending it. "Corey Mills."
Ryan looked at the offered hand for a beat longer than courtesy required, then took it and gave it a firm shake. "Ryan Ashford."
Corey blinked, recognition stirring across his face almost immediately. "Ashford?" he asked, his anger briefly pushed aside by surprise. "As in Professor Ashford from Excalibur?" A rough, almost embarrassed smile crossed his mouth. "Damn me, it's a real honor, sir."
Ryan released his hand without returning much of the smile, his attention drifting for half a second toward the boy beside him.
Corey noticed and seemed to remember why he was there. "Look, I'm real sorry about the whole thing," he said, giving the boy a hard glance before looking back at Ryan with the strained expression of a man trying to smooth over something ugly before it became worse. "You know how kids get sometimes, boys bein' boys and all that."
Ryan's expression did not change, though something cold entered his gaze. "Funny," he said, cutting clean through the apology, "because back where I'm from, boys don't beat on little girls and call it sport."
Corey's eyes widened as if the detail had knocked the breath from him, and in the next instant he snapped toward his son with sudden fury. "Aspen, you rotten little shit," he snarled, yanking the boy closer by the back of his shirt. "Bad enough I hear you're out here beatin' on other kids, but now I find out it was a girl?"
"But, Dad!" Aspen cried, twisting uselessly against his father's grip.
"No buts," Corey barked, lifting a finger in warning as his face reddened with anger. "You're in deep shit, young man, and I mean deep. When we get home, you're gonna find out exactly how much trouble you're in for embarrassing me like this."
"It's one of them scalie kids!" Aspen snapped, the words bursting out of him with all the spite and panic of a child trying to turn punishment into justification.
The change in Corey was immediate. He froze mid-scold, his raised finger hanging in the air as the anger on his face drained into something stiller and far uglier. Slowly, his gaze shifted past Ryan's shoulder toward the two girls standing behind him. Evie shrank closer to Nora the moment his eyes landed on her, while Nora's expression tightened and her arms drew protectively around the smaller girl, pulling her in as if she could shield her from the man's stare alone.
Ryan noticed the shift before Corey said another word.
The concern vanished first, then the shame, and finally the apology itself seemed to rot behind his eyes.
"Oh," Corey said, his tone lowering as disgust curled through his expression. "Well, that changes everything."
Ryan's face hardened as Corey loosened his grip on Aspen's shirt, not enough to release him, but enough that the boy seemed to understand he had escaped the worst of it. "Looks like I'm gonna have to retract that apology," Corey continued, his gaze lingering on Evie and Nora with naked contempt. "My boy here didn't do anything wrong."
Ryan's posture settling into something dangerously calm. "Excuse me?"
Corey met his stare without flinching, though the malice in his face made him look smaller rather than stronger. "Boys will be boys," he said, and then his eyes slid back toward the girls with a spiteful curl of his lip. "And trash will be trash. I'm not straightenin' my kid out for doing what's right, because those scalies need to learn their damned place, and they need to understand they're not wanted here."
For a moment, no one moved.
The street seemed to narrow around the four of them, with the late autumn light catching the dust in the air while Evie clung to Nora's dress and Nora held her so tightly that her knuckles paled against the fabric. Ryan stepped forward just enough that Corey had to look up at him, and whatever warmth had been in his face when he comforted Evie was gone now, replaced by a hard, steady fury that did not need to raise itself to be understood.
"One more damned word leaves your mouth," Ryan said, low enough that it forced Corey to listen, "and you're gonna find out real quick what a knuckle sandwich tastes like."
Corey stared at Ryan for a moment before a scoff broke out of him, sharp and incredulous, as though the threat had offended him more than it had frightened him. "Really?" he asked, tilting his head while his mouth curled into a sneer. "You're gonna kick my ass?" His chin jerked toward Evie and Nora with careless contempt, the gesture alone enough to make Nora draw Evie even closer. "For them?"
Ryan said nothing, though the silence that followed was not empty. It gathered around him, steady and dangerous, while Corey mistook restraint for hesitation and let his smirk widen.
"Thought you were one of the good guys," Corey continued, thick with scorn as he looked Ryan up and down. "Turns out you're just another bleeding heart after all. Guess that explains why Excalibur's goin' down the drain, doesn't it?"
He leaned in slightly, emboldened by the sound of his own bitterness, while the evening crowd lingered at the edges of the street with the tense, silent hunger of people watching something ugly unfold and deciding whether cowardice felt safer than conscience.
"Hate to break it to you, Professor, but nobody's on your side here. Folks in this city already know what belongs where. We don't need some academy man coming down here, lecturing us about gutter races and pretending the world's supposed to clap along." His gaze shifted past Ryan again, landing on the two girls with a disgust that made Evie flinch. "Goblins, orcs, therians, the whole damned lot of them. Grots, Pigskins, Pelts, they're beneath decent folk, sure enough, but Scalies?"
Corey's expression twisted as if the word itself tasted foul.
"They're at the bottom of the ladder, and everybody knows it. You can throw them scraps, pat their little heads, tell yourself you're doing something noble, but you ain't gonna change a damned thing about how people see them."
Ryan's jaw tightened, though he kept himself still.
Corey slipped his hands into his pockets, then tipped his head toward Aspen with a proud, ugly little smile. "My kid did right by me, and he did right by everyone in this damned city who's tired of pretending trash ain't trash. And you," he said, "you need to pick a side before you start finding out what happens to men who stand in the wrong place for the wrong kind of people."
For one long moment, he held Ryan's stare, clearly waiting for anger, fear, or some satisfying crack in the man's composure, but when Ryan gave him none of it, he only smirked and turned away as if he had won something.
"Come on, kid," Corey said, clapping Aspen on the back with a rough affection that made the boy straighten with sudden pride. "Let's drop by that store and pick up those boots you want so bad. I'd say you earned it."
They started down the street together, father and son moving away beneath the fading amber light, and Aspen, no longer nervous now that his cruelty had been excused rather than punished, glanced back over his shoulder and stuck his tongue out at Ryan with smug little defiance.
Ryan did not move after them, though his fingers lifted slowly to point at his own eyes before turning toward the boy in a silent warning that needed no explanation.
"Be seein' you real soon, you little shit," he muttered through clenched teeth as his gaze shifted from Aspen to the man walking beside him. "You and your piece-of-shit dad."
Nora rose to her feet with Evie still tucked close against her side, one arm remaining protectively around the smaller girl. "I-I think we should go," she said, glancing at Ryan with gratitude softening the guarded tension in her face. "Thank you... again. I only wish there were more people like you."
Evie nodded beside her, still clutching at the older girl's dress with one hand while the other rubbed uncertainly at the last traces of tears on her cheek.
Ryan looked between them for a moment, and something in his expression softened before he turned fully toward them with a warm, easy smile. "Hey now," he said. "You really think I'm gonna let the two of you walk off just like that?"
Both girls blinked at him in confusion.
Ryan hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction where the father and son had gone, his smile sharpening into something more mischievous than angry. "That sumbitch is probably gonna buy his little crotch goblin a nice little treat for bein' a jackass, and that don't sit right with me," he said, then spread his hands as though proposing the only fair solution in the world. "So how about we balance the scales a little, huh? I know just the place."
Nora's brows drew together, cautious despite herself. "What place?"
Ryan looked between them with a grin that grew brighter by the second. "You ever been to the Pixie Pantry?"
Nora's eyes widened before she could stop herself. "Y-you mean the famous candy store downtown?" she asked, a hint of wonder slipping past her guarded restraint. "The one run by that elf?"
Evie's whole face lit up as if someone had struck a match inside her, the fear that had clung to her a moment ago giving way to pure, breathless excitement. "I've always wanted to go inside," she said, her tail beginning to sway behind her before she seemed to remember herself and pressed closer to Nora.
"Well, ain't that a lucky coincidence?" Ryan said. "I was about to head there myself, and I'd say the two of you have earned something sweet a whole lot more than that little bastard and his daddy ever did. So, what do you say? You two wanna tag along?"
Evie nodded immediately, her smile growing so wide that it almost seemed too big for her tear-streaked face, and her tail wagged behind her with a joy she could not quite contain. Nora hesitated, glancing down at the younger girl before looking back at Ryan, and although caution still lingered in her amber eyes, the kindness in his expression and the hope brightening Evie's face finally wore down the last of her reluctance.
"All right," Nora said softly. "Just for a little while."
Ryan tilted his head toward the street with an approving smile, then started forward at an easy pace that allowed both girls to fall in beside him rather than trail behind. Evie walked closer than she probably realized, still keeping one hand in Nora's but drifting nearer to Ryan with shy curiosity, while Nora remained watchful at first, her gaze moving over the crowd and the fading autumn light as though expecting trouble to return at any moment. Yet with every step they took away from the place where Evie had been hurt, the tightness in her shoulders eased just a little more, and by the time the warm glow of the downtown street lights began to shimmer ahead of them, the promise of sugar, color, and one decent afternoon seemed to settle gently over all three of them.
"By the way, mister," Evie asked, looking up at him with open curiosity, "what's a crotch goblin?"
Ryan's mouth pressed into a thin line as his eyes darted across the square, searching desperately for any acceptable answer. "Um," he said, clearing his throat while a faint flush crept up his face, "that's, uh... that's one of those things I'll explain when you're older."