The streets of Camelot bustled with life despite the dreary morning. Storm clouds loomed overhead, their greying mass rumbling faintly with distant thunder. The air hung thick with the scent of moisture, laced with a faint trace of smog and an unmistakable sweetness—sugary yet tinged with grease, the ethereal aroma of crystals burning in the steam of passing vehicles. In a city as vast as Camelot, it was a constant presence, subtle but unavoidable.
Denizens of all ages and races filled the paved sidewalks. Some strolled with their noses buried in the projected screens of their devices, reading updates on Avalon's happenings. Others indulged in idle gossip or scanned the news of the day, while a few stared in dread at the markets that dictated their fortunes. The city hummed with a chaotic rhythm, a mix of industry, intrigue, and quiet desperation.
Bran stepped out of a quaint café, the soft tinkle of the door chime signaling his exit. His lime-green eyes swept briefly over the small, rounded tables lining the café's glass front, where patrons enjoyed scones, jam, and coffee. Adjusting the coat draped over his shoulders, he turned onto the bustling sidewalk, moving with purpose. His finely tailored three-piece navy-blue suit and black leather gloves marked him as a man of station, but it was the badge pinned to the collar of his coat—a polished emblem of the Adjudicators of the Clock Tower—that truly commanded attention.
As he crossed the busy street, blending seamlessly into the throng, Bran's gaze lifted to the imposing structure ahead. The headquarters of the Clock Tower loomed across the river, its architecture a testament to the city's ancient roots and enduring power. The massive, gothic edifice stood weathered and brown from centuries of time, its spires rising sharply into the heavens like spearheads. Metallic-framed windows lined its walls, glinting dully in the overcast light.
Most striking of all was the towering clock tower beside it. Four grand clock faces adorned its sides, each facing a cardinal direction, their hands ticking with an air of inevitability. The structure dominated the skyline, a monument to authority and influence.
Bran felt no awe as he approached; the building was as familiar to him as his own reflection. He had grown up within its shadow, a member of a family deeply entrenched in the Clock Tower's legacy. For generations, his kin had served its interests, their pride and power woven into the institution's very fabric. Now, as always, it stood as both his inheritance and his burden.
****
As Bran stepped through the revolving brass doors, a flask of his morning brew in hand, he immediately noticed something unusual. The interior was far busier than normal. Footsteps echoed across the polished black marble floors, the squeak of loafers and the rhythmic tap of heels creating a chaotic symphony. Ornate gold trim laced the walls, interwoven with statues of majestic animals and magical beasts—eagles, dragons, and other creatures immortalized in the architecture's intricate design.
High above, suspended from the ceiling that stretched dozens of stories into the air, hung a massive four-faced clock. Its hands didn't just mark the time; the clock displayed the pulse of Avalon itself, showing the state of its crisis levels. The dials and gauges shifted constantly, a living reminder of the kingdom's ever-changing challenges.
As Bran moved further inside, a scene caught his attention. A woman bumped into a colleague, sending a stack of papers scattering across the floor. She crouched down to gather them, muttering apologies, while the other person hurried on without so much as a glance. Bran slowed his pace, his lime-green eyes narrowing with curiosity and unease, a gnawing suspicion forming in the back of his mind that he was behind on important developments.
"Bran!" called a gruff voice from across the expansive hall. The young man turned in its direction.
Striding toward him was a man in his late forties, his presence commanding yet approachable. He wore a distinctive black uniform trimmed with silver, its brass buttons gleaming under the lights. A leather belt crossed his chest, fastening light but practical armor to his arms and torso. A broadsword hung securely in its scabbard at his waist. Pinned to his chest was a badge in the shape of a shield, emblazoned with the word AEGIS and the title Guardian forged beneath it.
Bran greeted him with a polite smile, but his sharp instincts didn't miss the storm of unease brewing behind the man's eyes.
"And a very good morning to you, Lieutenant Reagan," Bran said smoothly, offering a slight nod. "You seem flustered. Is something the matter?"
The older man waved a hand dismissively, though the tension in his stance betrayed him. "I've told you before, kid—call me Frank. No need to make me feel older than I already am." He leaned back slightly, cracking his back with a faint grimace. "Though, truth be told, I'm not exactly eager for retirement either."
"Age is but a number," Bran replied with a light chuckle. "But I'll keep that in mind." His gaze flicked to the murmuring crowd. "Things seem a bit more turbulent than usual. Care to enlighten me?"
Frank sighed, his thick black mustache twitching as he glanced around cautiously. "You mean you've not heard?" He leaned in. "They found Judge Stevens last night—or, rather, what was left of him." He paused, letting the words hang ominously before continuing. "Word is, it's the same perps. The ones hunting down members of the Clock Tower."
Bran's expression darkened. "Stevens?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "The same Judge Stevens who was put on administrative leave over his… incident?"
"Yeah, the very same," Frank confirmed with a nod. "Stevens was always dirty—anyone with half a brain could see it. Came from humble beginnings, sure, but his fortune?" He let out a derisive snort. "That didn't come from hard work and dedication, I can tell you that."
He hesitated for a moment. "That said… no one deserves to go out the way he did. First responders to the scene?" He shook his head grimly. "They're on leave now, pending a psychological evaluation. And I don't blame them. From what I've heard, it was…" He trailed off, his face clouding. "It was horrific."
"Tell me about it. I've seen the photographs, and I've been keeping a close eye on the incidents," Bran said, his gaze narrowing in thought. "My team and I have been consulted a few times for our perspectives. Nearly two dozen murders across several cities in Avalon—it's not random. There's a pattern, a distinctive path they're following." He rubbed his chin. "And these murders… from my observation, they're not just about sending a message. They're brutal, calculated, and deeply personal."
Frank folded his arms, his brow furrowed. "Still, who'd be mad enough to pick a fight with the Clock Tower?" he asked, though his lips twitched into a small grin. "That said, you'd make a hell of a detective. Fancy transferring to the Investigative Branch?"
Bran chuckled. "Tempting, but I'm not cut from the same cloth as my father and grandfather," he replied with a faint smile. "I've always known I'd be an Adjudicator. I find strength in peaceful arbitration, in resolving conflicts through reason rather than solving them with the flick of a wand."
Frank let out a dry laugh. "Take it from me, kid—I've been in AEGIS long enough to know that words only go so far. They don't mean much to those who are set on causing chaos."
"Perhaps," Bran said. "But that doesn't mean we should stop trying."
"If you say so," Frank replied with a shrug. "Speaking of family, how was your trip back home for the holidays?" He raised an eyebrow. "Not to mention, I heard you took a little detour to the Howling Mountains. What's that about?"
"Oh… that," Bran said, his lime-green eyes flickering with a hint of something unspoken. "It was nothing. Just… helping out a friend." He hesitated. "As for the family, well, things were a bit tense back home."
"That sounds… ominous," Frank remarked, his brow furrowing. "Trouble in paradise?"
Bran gave a small shrug. "You could say that," he admitted. "The past few weeks have also been… enlightening. So much so, I find myself questioning things. Things I've always just… accepted."
"Well, don't drive yourself up the wall just yet," Frank said, tapping his foot. "The Tower's going to be plenty busy in the coming weeks, at least until they figure out who's behind these murders." His gaze shifted to the glass doors ahead, where a growing crowd had gathered outside. Their muffled voices reached them faintly through the glass.
"And, like clockwork," Frank muttered, nodding toward the commotion.
"Are those… reporters?" Bran asked, raising an eyebrow. "I thought the Tower managed to keep all news about the incidents under wraps."
"They did," Frank said with a dry chuckle, "until yesterday." He folded his arms. "This time, they left a witness. Judge Stevens' driver. The poor sod came barging into the station, raving about monsters—said they came back to life, disappeared in swirls of smoke. Claims they slaughtered a group of Aurors and the Judge. Man's gone completely mad, if you ask me."
"Terror has a way of twisting a man's memory," Bran said. "But regardless, the story's out now, isn't it?"
"Exactly," Frank replied grimly. "The top brass is scrambling—fire's been set, and now they're trying to keep it contained. Not that it'll do much good. Fat lot of chance they have of stopping this now."
"I have no doubt," Bran replied, glancing up at the massive clock dangling overhead. "But I really must be off. Perhaps we'll catch up again soon," he added with a polite smile.
"I suppose so," Frank said with a tired sigh. "I need to get back to my partner. The kid's been a handful these past few months." He pinched the bridge of his nose before running his fingers through his thinning black hair, streaked with strands of grey. "Don't get me wrong, his heart's in the right place. But he's going to learn the hard way that the world isn't as kind as he'd like to believe."
Bran gave a small shrug, his gaze distant. "I know the feeling. But I've no doubt he'll live up to his family's legacy, just as I've had to live up to mine. Do send my regards to Agent Reinhardt."
Frank let out a soft chuckle, unfolding his arms. "I hope you're right. Truly, I do. Hell, his grandfather was my mentor back in the day. Man was a legend—trained most of us at the academy. But even he understood the darkness that festers in this world." Frank's words tinged with concern. "The boy's got illusions of being some hero of justice. I just don't want to see those dreams shattered. Don't want him ending up as one of those husks the rest of us have become."
Bran's expression softened, a flicker of sadness in his lime-green eyes. "He reminds me of another young man I know," he said quietly. "I pray he's in a better place now, after everything that's happened."
Frank sighed, glancing toward the growing commotion outside. "Well, don't let me keep you. You've got arbitrating that needs doing, and I've got to stop this crowd from storming the front." He gave a casual salute. "Be seeing you, Bran."
"Likewise," Bran replied with a slight nod before turning away, his coat trailing behind him.
With that, both men turned on their heels, heading toward their respective destinations. As Bran ascended the grand staircase, his thoughts lingered on the series of events that had brought him to this moment. His trip to the Howling Mountains had been fruitful—he had found Raine's family, or at least her aunt on her late father's side. To say they were overjoyed was an understatement. Many of them had long resigned themselves to believing they'd never see her again.
There had been tears, joy, relief, and overwhelming happiness. Bran had no doubt that they would care for Raine with the love she deserved. Raine, for her part, had recognized them, and though their reunion was heartfelt, Bran couldn't shake the cold, bitter sadness that gripped him whenever his eyes fell on the golden bracelet around her wrist. The weight of his guilt gnawed at him, and for days, he had felt like a monster.
Returning to Ravenclaw Loft had offered no solace. Despite the festive cheer of the holidays, Rowena remained distant and cold. She avoided him at every turn, refusing to speak or even meet his gaze. Whenever he entered a room, she would find a reason to leave. Bran understood—he couldn't blame her. She wasn't just angry; she was deeply hurt by his actions, by the role he had played in it all.
He loved Rowena, and her animosity cut him deeply. But he had resolved to give her the space she needed. Perhaps, in time, she would find it within herself to offer him a shred of understanding for the choices he had made.
Bran narrowed his gaze and adjusted his glasses. For now, his duties awaited, and there was no room for distraction.
****
Far from the Crown City of Camelot, past rolling green hills, winding rivers, and sprawling lakes, lay the familiar sight of Caerleon. The air was noticeably milder, though the chill of winter still lingered. Snow had begun to melt, and the frozen lake was starting to thaw, signalling that spring was only weeks away. Life had returned to the city, its streets bustling as Excalibur prepared to begin its next term.
Trains rolled steadily into the station, carrying students back from their homes across every corner of Avalon—and even from distant worlds and timelines beyond. For many older students, it was a welcome return to the familiar sights and routines of campus life, their minds already turning toward the classes that awaited them.
For the anointed, however, the whispers of The Congregation and the Clans ignited a fresh wave of excitement and intrigue among the student body.
As one train screeched to a halt, steam billowed into the chilly night air, mingling with the murmur of voices and the hum of activity on the platform. Students poured out of the carriages, laughing, chatting, and hauling their luggage as the station buzzed with life.
Stepping off the train, Salazar paused, taking a deep breath and letting the familiar scents of the city fill his lungs. "Finally," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. "At long last… civilization." His black hair, streaked with green highlights, caught the dim glow of the crystal lights as he adjusted the pendant dangling from his wrist.
"Salazar!"
The voice rang out before he had time to react, and within seconds, he was tackled to the ground. The air was knocked from his lungs with an audible choke as he hit the platform.
"It's so good to see you!" Helga beamed, her bright smile radiating warmth as she hugged him tightly.
"Likewise, my dear Helga," Salazar managed as he picked himself up from the platform. "Though I fear you may have broken something… namely, my spine."
Helga laughed sheepishly as she stepped back, her amber eyes sparkling.
Rowena approached; her movements as poised as ever. "Greetings, Salazar," she said, her sapphire eyes studying him intently. "You look well. I trust the holidays weren't too lonely for you."
"As a matter of fact, I made the spontaneous decision to spend them in a quaint little town called Dark's Hollow," Salazar replied, brushing the dust from his uniform. "You may know it as Godric's hometown."
"You spent the holidays with Godric?" Helga asked, her eyes wide with excitement. "That must have been an adventure!"
Salazar chuckled, shaking his head. "As exciting as a trip to the moors of England can get," he said with a wry grin. "I'll admit, it had its moments, but country life just isn't for me. I'd die of boredom within a week, let alone a year."
Helga giggled, while Rowena raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. The platform, now bustling with students and luggage, buzzed with energy as the trio stood reunited under the shimmering glow of Caerleon's crystal lights.
"Speaking of which, I don't see Godric," Rowena said, raising an eyebrow. "Is he alright?"
At the mention of Godric, Salazar's expression darkened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "He's…"
Before he could finish, Godric stepped off the train and onto the platform.
Helga and Rowena froze, their eyes widening in disbelief as they took in the sight before them. The confident, brazen boy they once knew was gone, replaced by a hollow shadow of his former self. His hair hung in an unruly, tangled mess, and his uniform, once pristine, was wrinkled and disheveled. Dark, sunken circles underlined his hollow eyes, telling the story of sleepless nights that had stretched on endlessly.
Though his sword remained strapped to his back, its presence a remnant of who he used to be, his slumped shoulders and sluggish movements spoke volumes. He carried himself with a heavy, lifeless air, as if the weight of the world had settled on him and refused to let go.
"Godric… you look…" Rowena began.
"Horrible," Helga finished.
"Hey," Godric greeted flatly. "Let's get going. Don't want to be late." Without another word, he wheeled his trunk behind him and started walking, his footsteps heavy and unhurried.
Salazar exhaled a long sigh, shaking his head. "Let's just say time hasn't done him any favors. If anything, he's gotten worse. I've tried everything. His uncle's tried everything. But it's no use." He paused, his tone dropping. "He's broken… in more ways than one."
"I wish there was something we could do," Helga said softly, her amber eyes clouded with worry.
Rowena crossed her arms, her expression contemplative. "So do I," she admitted. "But you don't recover from something like that—not overnight." She glanced at Salazar and Helga. "As much as I hate to admit it, Godric needs time. And support. The last thing we need is for him to spiral any further, to a place he can't escape."
Salazar shook his head with resignation. "I fear it's already too late for that," he said quietly. "This is a hole only Godric can pull himself out of. No one else can do it for him."
"Have you heard from Bran? About Raine?" Helga asked softly, her gaze turning to Rowena.
Rowena flinched at the question, a flicker of sadness clouding her sapphire eyes. "Bran and I didn't talk much over the holidays," she admitted as her gaze dropped to the ground. "I couldn't look him in the eye. I didn't want to be near him. The thought that he could do something so terrible, so vile…" She shrugged, glancing briefly at Salazar before continuing. "What you said stuck with me, Salazar. It made me think. Raine's story could have been mine. What if he'd done the same to me?"
Salazar's gaze softened, and he spoke gently. "Rowena, it was never my intention to—"
"No, don't apologize," Rowena interrupted, holding up a hand. "You made me think. You forced me to ask questions I never thought I'd face. About everything—about Bran, my family, and the Clock Tower. I just… I just need some space. Away from all of it, especially from him."
She took a deep breath, steadying herself before continuing. "From what I've heard, though, he found Raine's family. Her aunt had taken her in. It won't be easy for her—it's a long, hard road ahead, especially after everything she's been through as a slave. But at least for now, she's safe. And she's loved."
The weight of her words lingered, heavy and unspoken, settling over them like a shroud. Salazar shifted his gaze toward Godric, watching as he trudged toward the station's entrance, his steps slow and burdened.
"It'll be a long road indeed," Salazar murmured with a quiet sorrow. "For both of them."
****
The Grand Hall of Excalibur Academy buzzed with vibrant energy as students reunited, sharing stories from their time back home and recounting playful antics over the holidays. Laughter and chatter filled the air, mingling with the mouthwatering aroma of the grand feast spread across the long tables. Roasts, carved meats, fresh salads, and decadent delicacies tempted even the fullest stomachs, the sight alone enough to make mouths water.
In the background, the Academy's slaves and servants moved diligently, clearing dishes, wiping up spills, and ensuring the evening unfolded without a hitch. Among them, Anton stood out—a commanding yet approachable presence on the floor, sleeves rolled up as he directed staff and worked alongside them, a stark contrast to Creedy's long-abandoned tenure as Caretaker.
As for Creedy, he was nowhere to be seen. Whispers circulated among the students and staff alike—his fall from grace had left him relegated to the most degrading of duties, solely responsible for the filth of the Academy, as even the slaves refused to work with him.
Despite the lively atmosphere, a somber undercurrent lingered for those who noticed Godric. Seated at one of the tables, he ate in silence, his plate sparsely filled. His head was bowed, his gaze fixed downward as he took slow, mechanical bites. The usually vibrant boy was a shadow of himself, his aura heavy with unspoken pain.
Helga and Rowena watched him from across the table, concern etched deeply into their expressions. Rowena's sapphire eyes were clouded with worry, while Helga's usual brightness was dimmed by the sight of her friend's pitiful state. Salazar, sitting next to him, bore a different expression—one of quiet resignation. His dark emerald gaze flickered to Godric, and though he shared their concern, it was clear he had already accepted the grim truth: his friend was drowning in a darkness far deeper than even he anticipated.
Even among the rowdier students, Godric's condition didn't go unnoticed. Cú and Údar exchanged glances, their shock evident, though concern struggled to break through their hardened exteriors.
Professors Serfence and Workner sat at the teacher's table, their gazes inevitably drawn to the boy. Though they exchanged no words, their expressions reflected a quiet, shared understanding—a pained acknowledgment of the weight Godric now carried, one they both knew all too well.
From the Visionaries' Table at the far end of the hall, Genji observed the scene with quiet intensity. His fingers interlocked, his sharp gaze fixed on Godric as his eyes narrowed in thought, taking in the boy's broken state with a measured, calculating air. The upbeat energy of the Grand Hall rolled on, but for a few, the joyous reunion felt hollow, overshadowed by the weight of what had been lost.
It was then that Headmaster Blaise rose from his seat, commanding the attention of the room as the hall gradually fell silent. His piercing blue eyes swept over the students, firm yet kind, radiating an air of quiet authority.
"Welcome back, one and all, to another term here at Excalibur Academy," Blaise began. "Before we retire to the comforts of our beds and prepare for another day of toil, I'd like to say a few words." He paused, taking a deep breath, allowing his words to settle before continuing.
"As some of you may already know, the previous term ended with an event that was both… electrifying and deeply concerning. While I humbly request that those who are privy to the details remain discreet, I offer this as a reminder to all."
His gaze swept across the hall, lingering for a moment on clusters of students who shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"Rules and laws are the foundation of order, and while tolerance is often extended, it has its limits," Blaise said. "Certain principles and precedents must take priority, and authority must be respected. Let this be understood and remembered." His gaze landed on the Visionary Table, his eyes narrowing slightly. The Visionaries, arms crossed, met his stare with unflinching resolve. "Regardless of circumstance."
With a subtle shift, Blaise softened his tone, moving to a broader, more reflective note. "Now, setting that aside, let us take a moment to reflect on what we've gained—" his gaze flicked briefly to Godric, a shadow of sympathy crossing his features, "—and what we've lost. I ask each of you to treasure what you have and to never take anyone, or anything, for granted. In the bonds we share, we find strength, and in the love and hope we give one another, we find the power to weather even the darkest times."
He straightened, a faint smile appearing as he concluded. "So, eat well, feast heartily, and prepare yourselves. Tomorrow, we begin anew."
The hall sat in silence for a beat longer before the clinking of cutlery and hum of conversation slowly resumed, Blaise retaking his seat with a quiet grace.
****
"Seems Professor Blaise is still a bit miffed about the whole 'duel in the clocktower' ordeal," Helga said, dipping a roasted chicken leg into a bowl of sauce before biting into it. "Not exactly our fault that Volg and the Calishans had to act like complete pricks."
A subtle twitch in Godric's brow betrayed his interest, though his eyes remained downcast as he ate in silence.
"Can you blame him?" Rowena replied, her fork twirling delicately in a plate of pasta. "We probably cost the Academy thousands of Platas in damages."
"Please," Salazar interjected, swirling the raspberry juice in his goblet. "Excalibur isn't exactly hurting for funds. I've heard whispers they recently purchased a new batch of slaves."
Helga frowned, setting her chicken leg down. "I still don't see why Excalibur needs more of them. They could just hire workers. It's not like Caerleon is short on manpower."
"We all know why, Helga," Rowena said with a sigh. "Slaves don't earn wages, and they can be worked to the bone without complaint or consequence. That said, with Anton in charge, I imagine he's brought in more to ease the workload. At least under his care, they're likely treated better, even if they're still in bondage."
"That doesn't make it any less barbaric," Salazar said firmly, his gaze sharpening. "Slavery is a relic of the past—a past that should've been buried long ago."
"Well, well, what a sorry little gathering we have here," a snarky, overly polished voice interrupted.
Salazar, Rowena, and Helga turned in unison, their gazes sharpening as they locked onto Nerida and her entourage, who stood smugly behind them. Nerida's long, blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and with a practiced flick, she tossed it back, her smirk as polished as her self-assured demeanor.
"Ah, if it isn't the Vulchanova viper herself," Salazar drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. "What's the matter, Nerida? The Aecor table not showering you with the attention you so desperately crave?"
"Oh, nothing like that, Slytherin," Nerida said with a matching smirk, her gaze flickering toward Godric. "I just thought I'd stop by and say hello. And, of course, see how far the mighty Lion of Ignis has fallen."
"What do you want, Nerida?" Rowena's tone was sharp, her patience hanging by a thread. "As you can see, we're trying to eat, and your presence is doing wonders for ruining our appetite."
Nerida placed her hands on her hips. "Careful, Ravenclaw. Just because you prevailed in the Bellum Inter Duos doesn't make you any more valuable than you were before."
"That's rich," Helga said with a smirk. "Coming from someone who couldn't duel their way out of a paper bag."
"Oh, I must agree, dear Helga," Salazar added with a chuckle. "Though I'd wager even a puffskein could best her in a duel."
"Hilarious," Nerida said with an exaggerated eye roll. "You can run your mouths all you want—you may have won the battle, but it doesn't change the fact that you lost the war." She leaned in closer, her smirk sharpening. "Tell me, Gryffindor, where's your precious little pelt now?"
At her words, Godric flinched, his knuckles whitening as they gripped his fork. Salazar, Rowena, and Helga's eyes widened, the room seeming to grow colder.
Nerida chuckled, her entourage snickering behind her. "That's what I thought. Poor little Ignis dog, fought so valiantly, gave it his all, and in the end? Alone. Pathetic. Tragic, really—and oh, so amusing."
Salazar, Rowena, and Helga rose from their seats simultaneously, their expressions dark and filled with fury.
"You'd best watch yourself, Nerida," Helga said.
"I've tolerated plenty of missteps from you, Vulchanova," Salazar said coldly, his gaze narrowing dangerously. "You've pushed your boundaries long and hard, but this time, you've gone a step too far."
"And if I were you," Rowena added, leaning forward with an icy glare, "I'd turn around and walk away. Or do we need to remind you what happened to Volg Dryfus?"
Nerida's entourage instinctively took a step back, unease creeping into their expressions. They had followed her countless times as she played her little games, offering a chuckle here and a snide remark there, always content to remain on the sidelines. But now, for the first time, they found themselves in uncharted territory—faced with three individuals who clearly believed the line had been crossed.
Despite the shift in the air, Nerida merely smirked and lifted her hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine, I've had my fun," she said breezily, gesturing for her friends to follow. But as she passed Godric, she paused.
For a moment, the smirk faded, replaced with a flicker of something almost genuine. "And for what it's worth," she said, her tone quieter, "I'm… sorry… for your loss."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked off, her entourage trailing behind her, throwing uncertain glances over their shoulders.
The three friends stood frozen, their anger momentarily evaporating in the wake of Nerida's unexpected words.
"Did… did she just…" Helga asked, tilting her head in disbelief.
"By Hecate," Rowena muttered, her sapphire eyes wide. "This must be a sign of the coming apocalypse."
Salazar let out a soft chuckle, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "How… amusing."
Godric wiped his mouth with a napkin before pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. He reached for his sword, slinging it over his shoulder as he turned to leave. His eyes, dulled and weary, carried a look of quiet defeat.
"I… I'll see you all tomorrow in class," he murmured.
"Godric…" Rowena called after him softly, but he had already started walking toward the entrance, his footsteps heavy against the floor.
Salazar and Helga exchanged a glance, their shoulders slumping as they looked down at their half-eaten plates. The lively chatter of the hall seemed distant now, the weight of Godric's pain casting a shadow over their table. Suddenly, neither of them had any appetite left.