The days bled together for Godric, an unrelenting cycle of violence, fury, and bloodshed that blurred into something twisted and grotesque, like a stained-glass mosaic shattered and pieced back together with jagged edges. His declaration against The Congregation had not been a warning—it had been a challenge, one that the Clans had taken to heart.
The challenges came in droves, not formal Bellum Inter Duos, but relentless skirmishes in the arena. The warriors of the Clans—students of all years, from the fresh-faced First Years to the battle-hardened Seventh Years—descended upon him in numbers, wielding steel and spells alike. And Godric met them all. Alone.
He painted his face for every fight—the same pale white, the same streaks of black trailing down his cheeks like the blood of a vengeful spirit. And with every battle, he grew more ruthless. What had started as fights for dominance became something else entirely, something darker.
He fought with the fervor of a man possessed, his blade carving through his opponents, his fists smashing bone and tearing flesh. One opponent became two, then four, then six at a time. And every single one of them left the arena broken, some barely conscious, others needing to be carried away in shattered pieces.
Rage seeped into his veins like poison, twisting him further, turning each brawl into a personal reckoning. His fists rained down on their faces long after they had stopped fighting back, the crunch of teeth shattering beneath his knuckles like brittle glass. More than once, he had to be dragged off an opponent before he could finish what he started. His name became both legend and warning—a rallying cry for those who cheered him from the stands, a whispered curse for those unfortunate enough to step into the pit with him.
Doctor Adani had seen her fair share of injuries from The Congregation's battles, but even she had grown disturbed by the sheer volume of students limping into her care. The wounds weren't just brutal; they were deeply personal. These weren't just fights—this was vengeance, raw and unchecked. And Godric had no intention of stopping.
His roars echoed through the arena, primal and untamed, as he stood over his fallen challengers, his fists bloodied, his blade slick with the carnage of another victory. The crowd, ever hungry for more, screamed his name, reveling in the spectacle of their self-made monster.
Helena watched from the stands, her heart growing heavier with each battle, each brutal display of savagery. She had tried to reason with him. So had Salazar. Her fellow Overseers looked on in discomfort, but none could intervene—not when the crowd approved, not when the laws of The Congregation were being followed to the letter.
Salazar had tried, time and again, to fight by his side, to pull him from the abyss by meeting him in battle. But Godric refused. He wanted them all for himself. He needed them all for himself. More than once, Salazar had to physically haul him back to their dorm, his body battered, his hands bruised and raw, his breath ragged from the sheer toll of his own brutality. And even then, sleep brought him no respite. His nightmares were worse than ever, each one fueling the fire inside him, driving him back to the arena to unleash his torment upon others.
Spring had finally arrived, the last traces of winter melting away as the scent of blooming flowers carried through the air. To the rest of the students, it was a time of renewal, of fresh beginnings, of warmth returning to the world. But for Salazar and his friends, it was nothing more than a cruel reminder of just how far Godric had fallen—and how little hope there was of him ever returning to the light.
Salazar stared into the swirling contents of his cast-iron cauldron, the liquid shifting between hues as it bubbled softly. His mind, however, was far from the potion before him. Thoughts churned like a storm, dark and relentless, pulling him into their depths. His gaze flickered toward the empty seat beside him, its absence gnawing at him like an open wound. He exhaled sharply through his nose before glancing at Rowena and Helga, seated at the adjacent table. They met his eyes with the same solemn understanding, their expressions mirroring his own unspoken worry.
This was the third Potions class Godric had missed in a row. In fact, he had been absent from nearly all his lessons over the past few weeks. The professors had noticed, of course. Some asked questions, their concern evident, but none pressed too hard. They sympathized, as did nearly everyone who knew what had happened. But even their patience was beginning to wear thin.
Salazar knew exactly where Godric was. Every night, without fail, he was in the arena, answering challenge after challenge, leaving behind only battered bodies and shattered pride. And after his victories, he found solace at the tavern, drowning himself in drink, his anger slurring into drunken outbursts, his winnings squandered on anything that might silence the ghosts in his mind. More than once, Salazar has found his fine robes stained with bile as Godric wretched the contents of his stomach onto the castle floors.
The once-proud warrior, the boy who had stood against Volg and the Calishans, had become a shadow of himself—drenched in violence, drowning in liquor, and spiraling deeper into an abyss that seemed to have no end.
"Slytherin!"
The voice of Professor Rasputin boomed through the damp air of the classroom, yanking Salazar back to the present. His head snapped up, and he realized—too late—that his potion was bubbling wildly, threatening to boil over. His heart lurched.
Muttering a curse under his breath, he grabbed a handful of dried sage leaves and a pinch of powdered bezoar, tossing them into the cauldron. He stirred rapidly, his movements swift but controlled, praying that he hadn't already doomed the entire concoction. The violent bubbling slowed, the surface of the potion evening out into a steady simmer. He exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders.
Heavy footsteps thundered toward him, and in moments, Rasputin loomed beside him, his thick black beard swaying with the movement, his dark eyes burning with displeasure.
"Where was your head, stupid fool?" Rasputin snapped. "You wish to kill everyone in this class, blyat?"
Salazar reeled, swallowing his retort. "No, sir," he said quickly.
"Then pay attention!" Rasputin barked, his sharp gaze scanning cauldron's contents. "You are lucky potion is salvageable. One more second, BOOM! Volatile mess all over classroom!"
He huffed, crossing his arms. "You drift off again, I rip points from Ferrum like flesh from bone! Ponimat?!"
Salazar straightened his shoulders. "I apologize, Professor. It won't happen again."
Rasputin narrowed his eyes before giving a curt nod. "See it does not." He then grumbled in an unknown language under his breath before stomping away.
Salazar let out a slow breath, forcing himself to focus on his potion. But no matter how much he tried, his mind remained elsewhere—on Godric, on the arena, on the nightmare that his friend refused to wake from.
****
Godric's fists crashed into the punching bag with relentless fury, each blow rattling the chain that held it, sending tremors through the training room. His knuckles, wrapped tightly in bandages stained with dried blood, ached with each strike, but the pain was a distant afterthought.
Sweat carved paths down his battered torso, clinging to the bruises, cuts, and gashes that littered his body—some fresh, some old, each one a testament to the war he waged both inside and out. His breath came sharp and ragged, his chest rising and falling in unsteady rhythm, but none of it slowed him. He couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.
Every slam of his fists against the bag felt like an echo of the ache buried deep in his chest, an ache no amount of violence could numb. With every strike, every flex of his muscle, her face flickered in his mind—Raine's smile, soft and fleeting like a dream just out of reach.
He could hear her voice, the ghostly echo of a love that had been torn from him, whispering in the wind, reminding him of everything he had lost. It was torture, a blade twisting inside him, but he welcomed it. He clung to it. It fueled the fire raging in his veins, the same fire that had driven him to break them—to break all of them.
They had hurt Shana. They had hurt Raine. They had hurt so many before them, treating the slaves like playthings, toys to be used and discarded. But not anymore. He had shown them. He had torn them apart, one by one, until they lay broken at his feet. They had thought themselves untouchable, hiding behind their privilege, their status, their cowardice.
But he had put the fear of the gods into them. Now, when he walked the halls, he could hear the whispers. See the way their eyes darted away, how some turned and fled rather than cross his path. He had made them afraid. And with that fear, the slaves were safe. The debauchery that had once plagued Excalibur had come to a screeching halt.
And yet, despite it all, it felt empty.
His grip tightened on the bag; his breath ragged. His head pressed against the worn leather as a primal, guttural roar tore from his throat, vibrating through the air. His entire body trembled, drenched in sweat, his skin burning with exhaustion. But still, he didn't move away. His forehead remained pressed against the bag as his fingers curled tighter, his nails digging into the material.
It wasn't enough.
The slaves needed someone to protect them. And he—he needed something to fight. Someone to break. Someone to pay. And as long as the foolish and the arrogant kept throwing themselves at his blade, he would give them exactly what they deserved. For as long as it took.
"Godric?"
His gaze snapped toward the doorway, his breath still ragged, the heat of exertion rolling off his body like steam. Sophia stood there, frozen, eyes wide, filled with something between sorrow and disbelief. Her hand covered her mouth, as though stifling a gasp, as if the sight of him—battered, bleeding, drenched in sweat, his knuckles raw and stained—was too much to bear.
His hair, once a blaze of crimson, now lay smothered beneath an inky void, as if the very essence of the darkness within him had reached out and strangled the last remnants of who he used to be.
He scoffed as he turned away from her, grabbing a towel from the rack. He dragged it across his forehead, wiping away the sweat, but it did nothing to cool the fire still burning in his chest.
"Is there a reason you're here, Sophia?" His words were sharp, edged with irritation, as though her presence was a nuisance. "If you must know, I'm fine."
"Godric, please." Sophia took a step forward. "We're all worried about you. Hikari, Chef Gusteau, Shana, your friends—Helga, Rowena, Salazar—even I. This isn't you. I know it isn't."
"Heh, if I had a Plata for every time someone said that," Godric muttered, shaking his head. "Godric, this isn't you.Godric, you're better than this." He turned, finally facing her, his expression hard, unreadable. "Well, that Godric's gone."
His words carried the weight of something irrevocable. "I am tired. So tired of people telling me who I used to be. That I'm better than this. This—" he gestured at himself, at the bloodied bandages, the bruises, the anger burning in his eyes "—is who I am now."
His gaze locked onto hers, unyielding, merciless. "So get used to it."
Sophia clenched her fists at her sides. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I?"
"Beating students to within an inch of their lives. Sending them to the Hospital Wing. Drinking yourself stupid. You're spiraling, Godric. You need help."
Godric laughed—a hollow, humorless sound. "Why? Why are you so upset? You should be thanking me, Sophia." His arms spread wide, as if addressing an audience. "All of you slaves are safe now. Not even one of you has been touched. Not one has been used, beaten, discarded like filth. And do you know why?"
He took a step toward her. "Because they're afraid. They don't even look at you anymore without pissing themselves, knowing that I'd come for them."
Sophia's gaze burned into his, unwavering. "At what cost?"
Godric scoffed. "You act like that's a bad thing."
"It is a bad thing!" Sophia snapped. "I want my fellow slaves to be safe, Godric, but not through fear. Not through terror. Not through threats of violence and death." She drew a staggered breath. "And not like this. Not by losing yourself. Not by becoming… this."
Her gaze swept over him, the bruises, the blood, the madness flickering behind his crimson eyes. "This insatiable beast. This mindless monster who craves nothing but blood, who only finds solace in the suffering of others."
"And what other choice do we have, Sophia?" Godric's smirk was sharp, almost cruel, but it didn't reach his eyes. "What do you want me to do, ask nicely? Beg for them to treat you like people?" He shook his head, chuckling bitterly. "Cause believe me, I tried. No. This is the only language they understand."
Sophia straightened, her posture rigid, her face tightening with something fiercer—anger, frustration, sorrow all entwined into one. "Have you even looked at yourself lately? Really looked at yourself?" Her voice trembled with fury. "Raine wouldn't have—"
"RAINE'S GONE!"
The room seemed to shake with the force of his cry.
Sophia flinched, taking an unconscious step back.
Godric's face contorted with raw fury, his breaths ragged and seething. "She's gone! They took her from me! The world took her from me!"
"And they laughed!" His chuckles were jagged, unhinged—more a twisted cry than a laugh. "They laughed, Sophia. I know they did! What am I but a little toy they could wind up, set me down, and watch me go—again and again, until I broke!" His snarl was venomous. "All of them—Workner, Serfence, Blaise, Bran, every damned bastard in The Congregation and The Clock Tower—laughing at the stupid little boy from the moors who dared to love a slave!"
His voice dropped, a deadly calm settling over his words, twisted with a sinister satisfaction. "Well… they sure as Hell aren't laughing anymore." His chest heaved, the erratic rise and fall of his breath the only sound in the room as his crimson eyes burned with an unholy fire. "There's nothing left for them to take, because I havenothing. Nothing but the next sorry bastard who dares to get in my way."
His whole body quaked with the force of his fury, every muscle taut, every fiber of his being a vessel for the rage that consumed him. "And I won't stop. I will never stop."
His fists clenched so tightly his nails threatened to pierce skin. "Not until every one of them has paid in blood. Not until they feel my rage—my hate—" his breath shuddered, his expression twisting into something near inhuman, "as I carve them open, reach into their chests, and rip out their hearts—just as they did mine."
Sophia looked at him then, really looked at him, and what she saw made her blood run cold. He wasn't just furious. He wasn't just broken.
He was gone.
His eyes—once bright, once burning with reckless passion and life—now held nothing but rage. A hunger for destruction. A black hole where his soul should have been. He looked more like a beast than a man, something wild and untethered, lost in the need to hurt something, someone.
A sick feeling curled in her stomach.
"And now…" Godric took a step back, exhaling sharply, his jaw clenching. "I think it's best you leave."
Sophia stood there for a long moment, her fists shaking, her breathing unsteady. Then, finally, she nodded.
"I still remember the first time I met you," she murmured. "When Raine told me you were the one who had her heart, I was thrilled for her. Thrilled for you."
She let out a slow, hollow breath. "Because when I looked at you, Godric. When I looked into your eyes, I saw love. I saw hope." Her gaze lifted, sharp, unwavering.
"But now…" Her lips pressed into a thin line. "All I see is darkness."
Godric said nothing.
She turned, walking toward the door. As her fingers curled around the handle, she paused for a moment, then spoke one last time.
"I pray you find yourself again, Godric," she said, almost pleading. "I really do."
And then, without another word, she stepped outside, closing the door behind her.
Godric's breaths quickened, each one sharper, angrier, his chest rising and falling with the force of the storm brewing inside him. The circuits beneath his skin flared to life, burning in a blinding yellow flash as arcs of electricity crackled across his arms, dancing like frenzied serpents. The charge in the air thickened, the scent of ozone sharp in his nostrils as his body trembled with barely contained fury.
Then, with a guttural roar that ripped from the depths of his soul, he turned, his fist swinging into the bag like a hammer of wrath. The impact was devastating. The sandbag exploded at the seam with a deafening crack, its thick chain snapping like a brittle twig. It rocketed across the room, slamming into the stone wall with a force that sent a violent shudder through the floor. The remnants of the bag slumped to the ground, a heap of torn fabric and scattered sand pooling at its base like the remains of a fallen foe.
Godric stood there, his body trembling, his breath ragged, his vision swimming with red. Slowly, he looked down at his fist. The bandages were soaked through, crimson seeping between his fingers, fresh blood trailing down his knuckles before dripping onto the floor below. He flexed his hand, watching as the wound pulsed, the sting barely registering over the white-hot fury still coursing through his veins.
And yet, despite the pain, despite the destruction, it wasn't enough.
Nothing ever was.
****
Salazar sat at their usual spot at the long dining table within the Great Hall, his fork idly pushing peas and baby carrots around his plate as he stared at his untouched steak. The food before him held no appeal, not that it had for weeks. His appetite had withered alongside his patience, his mind trapped in an endless cycle of helplessness and frustration. Guilt gnawed at him, an unrelenting ache in his chest as he watched his best friend spiral further into darkness, consumed by rage and grief, lost in a storm he neither wanted nor knew how to escape.
And yet, despite knowing how dire things had become, Salazar couldn't bring himself to speak to any of the professors or even Doctor Adani. A bitter part of him resented his own hesitation, resented that he cared so damned much, that he had allowed himself to be so emotionally entangled in something he felt powerless to change.
"Salazar, at least try to eat something."
Rowena's voice cut through his thoughts, gentle but firm, drawing his gaze upward. Her sharp blue eyes studied him with concern, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Helga, seated beside her, lifted a finger as if about to interject, but Rowena shot her a warning glare before she could open her mouth.
"No, Helga, you already had yours."
Helga pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. "I was about to ask first, you know. It's not like I was gonna snatch it." She glanced longingly at Salazar's plate before adding, "Sides, Pop-pop Hufflepuff always said it's a crime to waste a good steak."
Salazar let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head before sliding his plate toward her. "By all means, my dear Helga."
Helga's face lit up as she rubbed her hands together gleefully before digging in, humming in delight as she sliced into the meat. Rowena, meanwhile, let out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"I appreciate your concern, Rowena, truly," Salazar said, offering her a small, tired smile, "but I'm fine. Just… a lot on my mind."
"We're all worried about Godric," Rowena replied, finally shutting her book and setting it aside. "I know how you feel about getting the professors involved, but perhaps it's time we spoke to someone. Professor Workner, perhaps?"
Salazar scoffed, his expression hardening. "Workner?" He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "He's the reason Godric's in this mess to begin with." His gaze turned sharp, accusatory. "Him and your—"
He stopped himself just in time, catching the flicker in Rowena's eyes before looking away. He spoke again, though no less resentful. "And the last time I involved a teacher, it only accelerated his downfall. This is my doing. I should've left it alone."
"Salazar, no, it's not," Helga said, chewing through a bite before swallowing. "Rowena told me about the Mirror of Erised, and that thing would've done more harm to Godric than pumping himself full of Nova."
"Highly debatable, but go on," Salazar muttered, rolling his eyes.
"It's one thing to mess with your body," Helga continued, slicing off another piece of steak. "It's another to completely lose your mind. One's a hell of a lot easier to fix than the other."
"And besides," Rowena added, "it was only a matter of time before things escalated. We underestimated just how far Godric would fall, and I overestimated his ability to pull himself out of it." She exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples. "Bottom line—he needs help. Help beyond what we can give him."
Salazar's lips pressed into a thin line. "So what? We go behind his back and drag Doctor Adani into this? You do realize that if we get her involved in his current state, he's liable to be thrown in a padded cell."
"Only if he gets combative," Rowena argued.
Salazar frowned, taking a slow sip from his silver goblet. "And what part of him makes you think he wouldn't?"
Rowena didn't have an immediate response, and Salazar sighed, shaking his head.
"Godric is losing it, I know," Rowena admitted. "He's not just fighting anymore—he's hurting people, brutalizing them. Whatever shred of restraint he had left—whatever sanity he was still clinging to—it's slipping through his fingers, and I don't think he even cares."
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I refuse to step foot in The Congregation out of principal, but even from the rumors alone, it's clear—he's more beast than man now."
Helga nodded grimly. "The fights used to just be beatdowns, but now? The way people talk about him… it's like he's become some kind of executioner. A demon on the sands. The students fear him, Sal. Even the older ones."
Salazar closed his eyes for a brief moment, the image of Godric in the arena flashing in his mind—his face painted like a specter of death, his blade merciless, his fists merciless, his eyes merciless.
He drew in a slow breath, forcing the thought away. "You're right," he murmured. "But let's not jump to the final option just yet. We owe it to him to try something else first."
Rowena arched a brow. "Like what?"
Salazar straightened; his jaw set in firm determination. "We talk to him. All of us," he said. "Properly. No dancing around the issue. No 'we're worried about you, Godric' nonsense. We tell him what he's doing to himself. What he's doing to us."
"Ooooh, an intervention?" Helga grinned. "Can I bring the hurley stick?"
"Helga…" Rowena groaned, massaging her temple.
"I'm just kidding, don't get your socks in a twist, Row," Helga chuckled, though her expression sobered quickly. "But seriously, we have to do something. We can't let him keep going like this."
Salazar's gaze darkened, his fingers tightening around his goblet. "No," he murmured. "We can't."
****
"So let me get this straight, Mister Wilkins." The man in the neatly pressed suit flipped through the stack of papers in his hand, his expression unreadable. He glanced up at the man sitting across from him, a trembling, disheveled mess hunched over the metallic table, fingers twisting in his own hair. "You're telling me they were dead. Confirmed dead. One of the Aurors checked. And then…" He arched a skeptical brow, shaking his head. "They just—what? Magically got up again?"
"For the hundredth time, yes!" Wilkins practically shouted. "They were dead. Then, they weren't. Why is this so bloody hard to understand?" His fingers dug into his scalp as he let out a choked breath.
Bran, who had been watching the exchange in silence, adjusted his glasses, his lime-green eyes steady behind the lenses. They had been at this for hours, locked inside a cramped, windowless interrogation room lined with dull, blackened walls. A one-way mirror stretched across one side, behind which Bran knew his colleagues were observing, waiting for something—anything—that could make sense of the madness Wilkins was spewing.
The man in the suit leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "You know what I think, Mister Wilkins?" he asked.
"I think Judge Stevens has been working you into the dirt. Everyone knows he's a damn tyrant—put you on overtime, ran you into the ground. You're exhausted, overworked, probably haven't had a decent night's sleep in weeks. And now you're seeing things. It's all just—"
"I know what I saw!" Wilkins exploded, slamming both fists onto the table with such force that the entire structure rattled. "By the Old Gods, why won't anyone believe me?" His breath came in ragged gasps as he clutched his head, eyes wild, voice teetering between desperation and outright terror.
"Those people… they weren't human. They were demons sent straight from Hell! And they're coming for me next, I know it!" His words frenzied and raw.
The suited man shot Bran a glance, shaking his head slightly. Bran inhaled deeply, exhaling through his nose before leaning forward, fingers clasped together. "These people," he said. "Did they have names?"
Wilkins blinked, his bloodshot eyes darting up, confusion flickering through his expression. "What?"
"Names," Bran repeated. "They must have spoken to each other. Referred to each other. Surely, you must have heard something?"
Wilkins stared at him, his mouth working silently as if trying to grasp the memory through the fog of his panic. "I… I don't know," he finally stammered, his fingers trembling as they curled into fists. "It was all—chaos. The screaming. The—Oh, Gods, the screams!" He squeezed his eyes shut, his whole body shuddering.
Bran sighed, shaking his head. "This is going nowhere." He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, his coat shifting as he turned toward the door. "Let me know if he says anything useful."
His fingers closed around the door handle when he heard it.
"Asriel."
Bran froze.
His breath hitched, the cold steel of the handle biting against his palm as the blood drained from his face. Slowly, he turned back, his gaze locking onto Wilkins. "What did you just say?"
Wilkins looked over his shoulder at him, his gray eyes wide, hollow, brimming with something dangerously close to insanity. "Asriel." His voice wavered. "That's what she called him. His name is Asriel."
A sharp pang of ice stabbed through Bran's chest.
His eyes flashed to the man in the suit, his expression urgent. "I have to go."
And before the man could stop him, Bran had already shoved the door open and vanished into the corridor.
****
Located on the lower floors of the Clock Tower's primary headquarters, the AEGIS Camelot precinct buzzed with frantic energy. The walls, constructed from dull gothic stone, loomed high, their cold surfaces broken only by frosted-pane windows that cast eerie patterns of light against the polished marble floors.
Rows of polished chestnut desks stretched across the room, some buried under mountains of case files and scattered papers, others kept in prim, meticulous order. Officers and guardians of various races and ranks moved in a barely contained chaos, their voices a mixture of barks and hurried whispers as they raced across the precinct, a storm of motion and urgency.
The city itself teetered on the edge of widespread panic. The streets were a battleground of law enforcement units scrambling to maintain order as the news of Judge Stevens' brutal execution dominated every channel.
"I want these districts on complete lockdown—no one gets in or out without full identification," Lieutenant Frank Reagan barked, his calloused hand slapping the large, mounted map before him. His finger dragged across key zones marked in red. "And I want additional units stationed here and here. We're not taking any damn chances."
A chorus of affirmations came from his subordinates as they hurried to carry out his orders. Reagan, a man hardened by decades of service, let out a weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "By the Gods," he muttered under his breath, "I need a damn vacation."
"Frank!"
He turned at the sound of his name, eyes narrowing as Bran stormed toward him, his expression tight with urgency.
"Bran?" Reagan frowned. "What in blazes are you doing here?"
"Call off the search." Bran's tone left no room for argument. "They aren't in Camelot anymore."
Reagan stiffened. "Whoa, hold on. What the hell are you talking about?" His hands came up. "What do you mean they aren't in Camelot? How could you possibly know that?"
Bran's breath was steady, but there was a flicker of something deep in his eyes. A knowing. A fear. "Asriel," he said. "That's what they called him."
Reagan's face twisted with confusion. "Asriel? Who the hell is—?"
"If it's the same Asriel I know…" Bran turned, his gaze locking onto the large city map pinned to the board. His fingers traced over the intricate network of roads and outlying towns, moving away from the dense heart of Camelot, further beyond the outskirts. His hand stopped suddenly. His finger pressed down on a single name.
"Stornoway," Bran said firmly, looking up at Reagan. "That's where they're headed. Gather a squad. Meet me there."
Reagan let out a low breath, his eyes scanning the map before shifting back to Bran with a skeptical glare. "That's several hours outside Camelot," he said. "Look, kid, you aren't making any damn sense. Why the hell would they be in Stornoway?"
Bran's gaze didn't waver. "That isn't their final destination," he muttered. "They're moving east."
Reagan took a step forward. "Then where the hell are they going?"
"Caerleon!" Bran called over his shoulder as he strode away, his coat billowing behind him. Without breaking his stride, he raised his device, and with a flick of his wrist, a lime-green holographic screen projected outward, casting an eerie glow against his face.
A soft beep echoed through the line before a voice crackled on the other end, smooth and laced with amusement. "Oh, Bran, missing me already? Really, I'm flattered."
Bran didn't slow. "Laxus… I need your help." He pushed past the heavy precinct doors, stepping into the cool night air.
There was a dramatic sigh on the other end. "Bran, I'm honored, truly, but I'm extremely uncomfortable participating in your little sister kink. It's just not—"
"It's Asriel." Bran cut through the noise. "I think he's in Stornoway."
Silence. The line went still, the playful edge in Laxus' voice vanishing instantly.
Then, low and firm, "I'll meet you there."