The air was warm, almost soothing, carrying the gentle scent of spring through the quaint little cottage. Sunlight poured through the clear glass windows, its golden glow brushing softly against his cheeks like a tender caress. Godric opened his eyes, inhaling the delicious aroma of stew simmering over the woodfire and eggs sizzling in a skillet. Leaning back in his chair at the dining table, he took in the cozy surroundings—the dining room's earthy tones of beige and pastel, even reflected in the simple yet elegant furniture. A smile crept across his face, accompanied by a warmth deep in his chest, comforting and inexplicable.
"Good morning, my love."
A soft hand touched his cheek, and Godric turned his crimson eyes to find Raine leaning close, her lips brushing against his cheek in a tender kiss. Her wolfen tail swayed gently behind her, a subtle rhythm of contentment.
"Slept well?" she asked affectionately.
Godric smiled wider, shaking his head. "Better than ever," he replied.
Raine placed a plate of warm breakfast before him, the aroma even more tantalizing up close. "Eat up," she said with a playful smile. "You'll need your strength. Can't lead your men on an empty stomach, can you?"
"You've got a point there," Godric chuckled, rubbing his hands together. But before he could take a bite, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway.
"Papa! Papa!"
A small, energetic voice broke through the peace as a little girl no older than five came running into the room. Her long, fiery red hair matched the crimson fur on her wolfen ears and tail. Godric's smile softened as he stood, dropping to one knee to catch her in his arms.
"There's my darling," he said warmly, scooping her up and holding her close. He kissed her cheek. "How's my girl today?"
The little girl giggled, her golden eyes sparkling with innocent joy, her laughter pure enough to melt the hardest of hearts.
"Alura, what did I tell you?" Raine said gently, stepping over to take the child into her arms. She cradled her daughter lovingly. "Papa has work to do."
"Aww, but can't Papa stay home and play?" Alura pouted, her wolfen ears drooping in disappointment.
Godric chuckled, leaning closer and pressing his forehead against hers. "Tell you what," he said softly, "how about this weekend, you, Mommy, and I go to the lake? Just the three of us."
Alura's face lit up, her tail wagging furiously. "The lake? Really? Yay!"
Godric laughed, his heart lifting at her joy. He kissed her cheek softly. "I love you," he said.
Then, turning to Raine, he kissed her tenderly on the lips. "And I love you, Missus. Gryffindor."
Raine smiled, her eyes glimmering with warmth as she chuckled. "And I will always love you, my brave lion," she whispered, her hand brushing gently against his cheek.
But then, her smile began to fade.
The room dimmed, shadows creeping in and swallowing the sunlight. The warmth gave way to an eerie chill.
"But this isn't real," Raine said softly.
Godric's brow furrowed. "Raine, what are you talking about?"
She stepped back, holding Alura tightly, her expression pained. The little girl's face mirrored her mother's sadness.
"You have to let us go, Godric," Raine said. "You have to let me go."
"No," Godric whispered, shaking his head in desperation. "No, don't go!" He reached out toward them, panic clawing at his chest.
But their forms began to disintegrate, turning to ash and drifting away into the encroaching darkness.
"Don't go!" Godric cried as he lunged forward, trying to hold onto them.
He caught only emptiness as the last remnants of their presence vanished, leaving him alone in the void.
"No, no, no!" Godric sobbed, collapsing to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "Don't leave me here… please… don't leave me alone."
The darkness pressed in around him, swallowing the light and warmth, leaving only the sound of his broken cries echoing in the emptiness.
****
Godric jolted awake with a scream, his arm reaching out desperately for something—someone—that wasn't there. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, sweat clinging to his skin and the chill of the room biting against him like icy claws. He gritted his teeth, his breath hitching as broken sobs tore through him. His trembling fingers dug into his hair, pulling at the strands in anguish as his body curled in on itself, a futile attempt to shield against the pain clawing at his soul.
Every night was the same. The vision of what could have been—so vivid, so painfully real—only to be cruelly ripped away, leaving him gasping in the void of loss. And every night, the ache burrowed deeper, an unrelenting torment. His tear-filled eyes fell to the empty space beside him on the bed, the place where Raine had once slept. Now it was just a hollow void, a mirror to the gaping emptiness inside him.
Barely a week had passed since his return to Excalibur, yet it felt like a lifetime. Everywhere he turned within the castle's walls, he was haunted by her ghost. The places they walked together. The spots where they talked, laughed, and kissed. Every corner seemed to whisper her memory back to him.
When he closed his eyes, he could still hear her voice, soft and clear, as if she were right there. When he tried to escape into solitude, he swore he could feel her presence, just out of reach. Her absence a dagger twisting cruelly in his chest.
Since the day she left, Godric hadn't slept a single peaceful night. The nightmares came like clockwork, wrenching him from sleep with cruel reminders of what he'd lost. There was no relief, no reprieve—neither in the waking world nor in the hollow recesses of his restless dreams.
His gaze drifted to his sword, resting against the chair. The majestic scabbard of royal blue and gold caught the silvery moonlight slipping through the cracks in the curtains, its intricate design gleaming faintly in the dim glow. Godric's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as a surge of restless energy overtook him.
Without a second thought, he threw off his blankets and jumped out of bed. Crossing the room in swift strides, he snatched up the sword, its weight familiar yet heavy with purpose. His hand tightened around the scabbard as he moved to the door, yanking it open with a determined force. Stepping into the quiet hallway, the cool air prickled against his skin, but Godric barely noticed. His footsteps echoed softly on the stone floor as he marched forward, his resolve etched into every movement.
****
The Ignis training room trembled with each impact, the walls echoing with the clash of steel and the splintering of wood. Sparks danced in the air as Godric's sword slashed into the enchanted training dummies, carving deep, jagged grooves into their forms. His body blazed with a fiery aura, circuits of molten gold streaking across his arms and chest, crackling with voltaic energy. The air around him hummed with the sheer force of his magic as he darted across the room, his movements a blur.
Each swing of his blade was relentless, cutting with a ferocity that the dummies' repair enchantments couldn't match. His teeth gritted as ragged cries of anguish escaped him with every strike, each one raw and guttural, filled with unfiltered rage and grief. Tears streamed freely down his face, but he didn't care. Every time he blinked, her face was there—smiling, radiant, so painfully vivid. He could feel her touch, the warmth of her hand on his cheek, the soft press of her lips against his.
The memories stabbed deeper than any blade. His pain throbbed, unyielding and all-consuming. With a feral cry, Godric's body became a streak of golden light, his speed tearing splinters from the floor with every step. He sped across the room, blurring between the dummies, his sword moving so fast it was almost invisible.
He landed, his breaths ragged, his eyes narrowing at the fractured remains of the training dummies barely holding together. Without hesitation, he surged forward, the ground splitting beneath him as he unleashed another strike. As he swung his blade, the force of the blow sent a shockwave rippling across the room, reducing the dummies to little more than scattered wooden shards. Deep gouges etched into the walls and floor as silence finally descended, save for his labored breathing.
Godric stood amidst the destruction, his body trembling. Tears streaked his face, and staggered sobs broke the quiet. Raine's voice echoed in his mind, haunting and bittersweet—a memory of that day, the day she had given him the pendant he now wore.
"This pendant represents my promise to you, Godric. Just as your bracelet was yours to me, this is mine to you. I will love you… for all time."
His hand instinctively moved to the pendant hanging from his neck, gripping it tightly as if it were the last piece of her he had left. His fists clenched, pressing against his chest over his heart. His teeth ground together, his face twisting with a pain too deep to describe. It consumed him, twisted him from the inside, and he couldn't bear it anymore.
The sword in his hand felt heavier as he raised it, pressing the cold edge of the blade to his throat. The chill of the steel sent a shiver down his spine. He closed his eyes, his body shaking. He just wanted it to stop—the pain, the memories, the unbearable weight of it all. He felt so tired. So utterly and completely tired.
His grip on the hilt tightened, the cold steel trembling in his hand as tears fell, splashing onto the scattered remains of the shattered dummies below him. "Raine…" he whispered brokenly. "I can't… I can't do this anymore…"
He drew a staggered breath, his chest heaving as the weight of his words pressed down on him. "I thought I was stronger than this… but I'm not," he admitted. "I don't want to live in a world without you… I can't." His shoulders sagged, the last vestiges of his resolve crumbling under the crushing grief that consumed him.
He suddenly felt an all-too-familiar touch—a warmth he thought he'd never feel again. Sweet, loving arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a soft, tender embrace. His breath hitched; his crimson eyes widened in shock. Deep down, he knew it couldn't be real, but in that moment, it felt so.
He could feel her against his back, the silken strands of her hair brushing his skin, her lips pressing a gentle kiss against his cheek. Her head rested on his shoulder as she held him, her presence enveloping him in a way that made his heart ache even more.
"This isn't you, Godric," Raine's whispered, soft and soothing, like a balm on his shattered soul. "The man I loved would never do this." Her words wrapped around him like a protective cocoon. "You're braver than you think. I know it. That fire within you—it's not gone. It's still here." Her ghostly hand moved to rest over his chest, right above his heart.
Godric gritted his teeth, his body trembling. "I don't know what to do, Raine," he choked. "I hate feeling like this. All this pain, this sadness… this hatred inside me. It's like poison, and I don't know how to make it stop." Tears streamed freely down his face as he sobbed, his words breaking apart. "I just want it to end."
"I know, my brave lion," Raine said softly. "But this isn't the way. You can die at any time, but living? That takes true courage." Her arms tightened around him as though anchoring him to the world. "This isn't the end. They need you—all of them. Live. Live for you. And most of all… live for me."
Her presence slowly faded, the warmth of her touch slipping away, leaving only the cold and the emptiness behind.
Godric stood there for a moment, his chest heaving as her words echoed in his mind. The sword in his hand lowered shakily to his side, his grip faltering. Finally, the blade slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the floor.
He dropped to his knees; his body wracked with sobs as he buried his face in his hands. The pain inside him surged one last time before bursting free in a raw, anguished cry. His voice echoed through the training room, a sound of heartbreak, grief, and longing—his soul calling out to a love he could never touch again.
****
Professor Lotho's History of Magic class dragged on endlessly, the halfling professor's voice droning across the room as he recounted the rise of the Edelheit Empire and the Age of Warring Nations, a period that began three centuries after the fall of the Dark Lord Sarkon. His words echoed off the stone walls of the classroom, their weight dulled by monotony.
Students sat slumped in their chairs, eyes half-lidded, teetering on the edge of sleep as Lotho gestured toward the blackboard, pointing at the hastily scrawled notes that lined its surface.
Helga, for her part, was sprawled over her desk, her head resting on one arm while the other hung limply over the edge. Her gaze was fixed on the blackboard, though her thoughts were undoubtedly far from the lecture. Her mind wandered to some far-off corner of Caerleon, likely indulging in fantasies of something deep-fried, smothered in chocolate, and topped with sugar sprinkles.
Rowena, ever the model scholar, sat upright, her sapphire eyes sharp as her quill moved swiftly across a sheet of brown parchment. The neat, elegant cursive of her notes stood in stark contrast to the dullness of the lecture itself.
Salazar, by contrast, leaned back in his chair, his chin propped on one hand, his expression one of thinly veiled despair. He half-considered throwing himself into the jaws of a fire-breathing dragon if it meant escaping the monotony of Lotho's lecture.
Godric, however, was entirely elsewhere. His posture was rigid, his eyes glassy and dull as they stared at nothing in particular. To him, Professor Lotho's words were a meaningless drone, hollow echoes devoid of life or importance. His body felt heavy, his mind numb, as if the passing moments held no purpose or meaning at all.
Salazar turned his gaze to his friend, his brow furrowing as he took in Godric's vacant expression. A heavy sigh escaped him, weighted with both frustration and concern.
"And that was how the Battle of Cellardyke was won," Professor Lotho concluded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His green eyes drifted to a piece of chalk lying askew on his desk, and with a small frown, he straightened it. "The legions of Edelheit triumphed decisively, expanding the Imperium's hold over Avalon—a dominance that persisted for nearly a century. Among the most celebrated figures of the Phoenix Legions was none other than General Damocles himself."
He paused, taking a deep breath. "That was, of course, until his untimely demise at the Battle of Lycurgus. It is said that his fall marked the beginning of the Imperium's downfall. Without his leadership and unparalleled bravery, the legions faltered and were eventually crushed."
A hand shot up from one of the boys seated near the middle of the classroom. "Professor, could you tell us about… the Sword of Damocles?"
The murmurs of idle conversation ceased, and all eyes turned toward the boy. Even Helga perked up, raising a curious eyebrow, while Godric looked up from his stupor, his attention clearly piqued. Professor Lotho let out a long-suffering sigh, removing his glasses and polishing them slowly.
"This is a History of Magic class, Mister Sykes," Lotho said. "Not story hour at the library. The tale of the Sword of Damocles is nothing more than a myth—a fairy tale spun around the legendary general. It holds no basis in fact."
"Oh, come on, Professor," Helga chimed in, straightening in her seat. "I've never heard this story before. Please?" She blinked her amber eyes, a playful pleading expression spreading across her face.
Lotho regarded her for a moment before shrugging in reluctant defeat. "Very well, Miss Hufflepuff, I'll humor you." He scanned the room, his tone stern as his gaze fell on each student. "But let me be absolutely clear—this is just a story. Not fact. I'll not have any of this nonsense turning up in your reports. Understood?"
A chorus of enthusiastic nods rippled across the classroom.
Rowena sighed audibly, setting her quill down. "A slice of hearsay and fiction within a history class—unbelievable."
"Oh, my dear Rowena," Salazar drawled with a smirk, leaning back in his chair. "How do you think history came about? It's nothing but stories spun by those who claim to have lived it."
"History," Rowena countered sharply, her sapphire eyes leveling on him, "is built on fact—solid, tangible facts that can be validated and written on paper."
Salazar's smirk deepened. "And yet, half the tales told about the Five Heroes are more fiction than fact, yet we accept them today as gospel truth."
Rowena opened her mouth to retort but hesitated, her expression tightening. Helga shot her friend an amused glance, while Professor Lotho cleared his throat, drawing the class's attention back to him.
"Now," Lotho said pointedly, "if you're quite finished debating, let's proceed with the story you've so eagerly requested." His words carried the faintest edge of reluctance, though his green eyes sparkled with the begrudging intrigue of a born storyteller.
"Legend," Professor Lotho began, placing deliberate emphasis on the word, "has it that General Damocles was a great warrior—a revered leader in one of the most formidable armies of his time. However, at the Battle of Lycurgus, his cowardly commanders abandoned him in the heat of battle. Undeterred, Damocles rode on to face the enemy alone—a decision he would come to regret deeply." Lotho clasped his hands together, drawing the students further in.
Helga and much of the class leaned forward, their eyes wide with anticipation, hanging on his every word.
"Outnumbered and outmatched, Damocles and the remnants of his Legion were utterly decimated," Lotho continued, his tone grave. "They were slaughtered to the last man. But, as the story goes, when the slain Damocles arrived in the afterlife, he found no peace. Nemesis—the Old God of Vengeance—was enraged by the fate that had befallen the brave general. So enraged, in fact, that she allowed Damocles to return to the mortal realm… as a vengeful spirit."
"Utterly preposterous," Rowena muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Shh, it's getting good," Helga whispered, nudging her with a grin.
Professor Lotho pressed on, undeterred by Rowena's skepticism. "Years passed, and those who had abandoned him—the commanders who had fled—rose to prominence, each becoming powerful generals in their own right. But Damocles returned, draped in armor and a cloak black as the void itself. His pale skin bore the mark of death, and his amber eyes glowed like flames in the darkness. Black stains, like congealed blood, surrounded his eyes, forming a twisted, demented mask."
The professor paused for dramatic effect. "For you see, Nemesis had granted Damocles a terrible power. He became a wraith of unbridled strength with command over darkness itself. Furthermore, he would never tire, never hunger, never die, and never stop, until he had, as they say—made the wrong things right. One by one, he hunted down and killed those who had betrayed him, dragging their immortal souls into Tartarus—the dark realm of eternal torment."
A heavy silence fell over the classroom, the weight of the story settling on the students.
"Some of you may think that his immortality was a blessing," Lotho said after a moment, "but far from it. In truth, what was given to Damocles was no gift, but a curse. Those who accept such power are denied an afterlife. They will never see the beauty of paradise or even the flames of hell. No reward, nor torment. Instead, they become 'tarnished,' forced to wander the void between worlds, trapped in shadow for all eternity."
"By the Gods…" Salazar muttered under his breath, his usual smirk replaced by a look of unease.
"And now, we come to the Sword of Damocles," Professor Lotho said, his green eyes glinting. "After the great general fulfilled his mission and claimed his vengeance, legend says his soul was bound to a sword—a weapon imbued with the same dark power Nemesis had bestowed upon him. Over time, the sword became a symbol of vengeance, offering its wielder the chance to right their wrongs and exact their own justice. Many are said to have wielded it, and many more have been claimed by its curse.
"And so, the legend goes, the Sword of Damocles remains somewhere in Avalon, lying dormant, waiting for the next soul consumed by vengeance to take up its power."
Lotho's gaze swept over the class. "That being said, historians and treasure hunters have scoured Avalon far and wide for years in search of this so-called sword, hoping to validate its existence. But none have ever found it."
The professor stepped back from his desk, adjusting his glasses as he looked out at the class. "And that, students, is the story of Damocles. A tale of ambition, betrayal, and the price of vengeance. A story, mind you—not fact. Keep that in mind when you write your reports."
The students sat in stunned silence, some scribbling furiously in their notes, others too captivated to move. Even Rowena's usual composure faltered slightly, though she tried to mask it by busying herself with her parchment. Helga's grin was wide, and Salazar leaned back in his chair, his expression contemplative as if weighing the story's deeper meaning. Godric, however, remained silent, his crimson eyes fixed on the desk, lost in thought.
****
The chimes of the Excalibur clock tower echoed through the air, signaling the end of the lesson and the close of another day of classes. Students spilled into the hallways in droves, their bags slung over their shoulders as they headed off in various directions. Some made a beeline for the library, eager to get a head start on assignments, while others gravitated toward the Great Hall, drawn by the promise of a warm meal and a chance to satisfy their cravings.
Among the sea of students, Godric and his friends wove their way down the hallway, the chatter and laughter of others filling the space around them.
The air was unusually warm for the season, a faint promise of spring. Despite the frost still clinging stubbornly to the glass windows, it was beginning to fade, droplets of condensation trickling down as the sun worked its magic. Outside, large sheets of ice on Lake Cardigan had started to fracture, melting into the dark waters below. For most, these changes heralded the turning of the seasons, a sign that time was moving forward. But for Godric, it was just another day—another monotonous stretch of existence, dragging on in a haze of pain and emptiness.
"I hope they've got éclairs for dinner tonight," Helga said brightly, a grin spreading across her face as she licked her lips. "I heard Chef Gusteau is back, and I can't wait to try whatever new recipes he's cooked up while he was away."
"Helga, the last time you overindulged on éclairs before bed, you pinged me in the middle of the night to tell me you were being chased by socks," Rowena replied. "If I have to listen to one more sugar-fueled recount of your dreams, I swear—"
"Speaking of which," Salazar interjected, cutting through Rowena's mild rant as his gaze turned to Godric. "How's it been, Godric? I hope the time back has been treating you better. Been sleeping any easier?"
Godric didn't answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the floor ahead as he walked, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, he gave a slight nod, barely perceptible.
Helga and Rowena exchanged a glance, their expressions softening as they studied him. They knew the truth—knew that the nod was little more than an effort to deflect the concern. But neither pressed further. They understood all too well that pushing him wouldn't help.
The group fell into a steady, quiet rhythm as they walked, the lively hum of students around them filling the air. But the stillness between them was shattered by the faint sound of distress—soft cries of pain carried through the corridor.
The four exchanged sharp glances, their eyes narrowing in unspoken agreement before they broke into a sprint, following the sound. Rounding the corner, they skidded to a stop, their eyes widening at the scene before them.
A group of boys—likely fifth or sixth years, judging by their stature and confidence—stood in a tight circle. At the center of their mockery was a girl, no older than Godric or his friends. Her long aqua-blue hair spilled over her shoulders, framing a face streaked with tears. Her turquoise eyes shimmered with pain and fear, and her white rabbit ears drooped as though in submission. Around her neck was a blackened metallic collar—one that marked her as a slave. None of them recognized her, but it was clear she was new to Excalibur.
The ringleader, a tall, broad-shouldered boy with short auburn hair spiked and styled back, held one of her long ears in his hand, tugging cruelly. He wore the Terra colors—dark amber and black—and his violet eyes gleamed with a sadistic delight as the girl whimpered.
"Please, stop! It hurts!" she cried.
"Oh, does it?" the boy taunted, a sneer spreading across his face as his friends erupted into laughter behind him. "I'll admit, I've never seen a rabbit therianthrope before. You must be a long way from home," he said mockingly, tugging harder on her ear, eliciting another sharp cry of pain.
Salazar's gaze darkened, his expression twisting in disgust. "Cardin," he snarled under his breath. "That uncivilized brute."
"Who?" Rowena asked, glancing at him sharply.
"Cardin Winchester," Helga answered, spitting the name through clenched teeth as she cracked her knuckles. "He and his lackeys are nothing more than a pack of bullies—just like Volg and the Calishans."
"Remember what Marcus said about older students preying on the younger ones?" Salazar muttered, his hand gesturing toward the scene before them. "Behold, exhibit A. And, of course, he and his monkey friends are part of The Congregation. More specifically, the Clan known as the Midnighters."
"Why am I not surprised?" Rowena muttered, shaking her head in exasperation. "It seems like everyone here with a penchant for cruelty has some tie to that lunatic club."
While they exchanged words, none of them noticed Godric. Quietly, he let his bag slip to the floor and stepped forward.
Cardin twisted the girl's ears again, earning another pained cry, but his taunting stopped abruptly. The sharp trill of a blade leaving its scabbard cut through the hallway, freezing everyone in place. Before anyone could react, Godric's sword was leveled at Cardin's throat, its tip a mere inch away.
Cardin's violet eyes widened in shock, his hand faltering as he registered the cold steel pointed at him. His friends stiffened, their laughter dying instantly.
"Let. Her. Go," Godric commanded.
Salazar, Helga, and Rowena's breath hitched, their gazes snapping to Godric. None of them had noticed him move, and now he stood there, every inch of him radiating dangerous intent.
Cardin's shock quickly turned to indignation. He spat angrily, "What the hell do you think you're doing, Gryffindor? You think this is a—"
The blade inched closer, so close it almost nicked his skin. Godric's crimson eyes narrowed. "One more word, and I'll give you another hole to breathe out of. This isn't a request—it's an order."
Cardin froze, the confidence draining from his face as his hand slipped away from the girl's ear. His friends began reaching for their wands, but before they could act, Salazar, Helga, and Rowena stepped forward, their wands drawn in unison, aimed directly at Cardin's lackeys.
"I'd tell your little dogs to heel, Cardin," Salazar said menacingly. His wand didn't waver as he fixed the group with a cold stare. "Or do we need to remind you what we're capable of?"
The hallway buzzed with tension, every breath heavy and charged as the standoff stretched on, the weight of Godric's command hanging in the air. For a moment, Cardin's defiant nature flared, the instinct to respond with his usual bravado tugging at him. But then his gaze locked with Godric's.
What he saw in those crimson eyes froze him to the core—they weren't the eyes of a boy playing the hero. They were the eyes of someone with nothing to lose, a gaze so unflinching and cold it sent an involuntary shiver down Cardin's spine. He faltered, his confidence cracking like brittle glass.
He stepped back, lowering his hands. "You better watch yourself, Gryffindor," Cardin snarled. "Don't think you're untouchable just because you bested Volg and the Calishans. They were small time compared to the rest of us. Not even the Lion of Ignis can take on the Midnighters."
Godric's grip on his sword tightened, his eyes narrowing further. His voice came low, cold, and sharp as steel. "Anytime. Anywhere."
Cardin scoffed, the bravado in his eyes masking a flicker of fear. He turned to the trembling rabbit girl, a cruel smirk curling his lips. "Be seeing you around, sweetheart," he sneered, blowing her a mocking kiss. The girl flinched, her wide eyes brimming with terror.
Satisfied with his display, Cardin spun on his heel, barking at his lackeys to follow. They hesitated, casting uneasy glances at Godric and his friends. Reluctantly, they fell in line behind him, their footsteps echoing down the corridor as they slinked away.
Godric stood there for a moment, his sword still raised. Then, with a smooth motion, he twirled the blade and slid it back into its scabbard. The tension in the hallway eased slightly, though the unease lingered in the air.
"Shana!"
The voice broke the silence, and they all turned to see Sophia rushing down the hallway. Her eyes widened as she spotted the rabbit girl trembling where she stood.
Sophia ran to her, pulling her into a tight embrace. Shana collapsed into her arms, sobbing into her shoulder.
"Where did you go?" Sophia asked, a mix of worry and relief. She held Shana by the shoulders, inspecting her. "I told you to stay in the kitchens! It's dangerous out here on your own!"
"I'm sorry, Sophia," Shana sobbed, tears streaming down her face. "I just wanted to… I thought…"
"It's alright, you're safe now," Sophia soothed, hugging her tightly again before lifting her gaze toward Godric and his friends. Her expression softened. Gratitude clear in her eyes.
"Thank you," she said simply.
Godric gave a faint nod, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Sophia hesitated, her eyes sweeping over him, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes, the disheveled state of his uniform, and the weight in his posture.
"Godric…" Sophia said softly, concern evident in her tone. "Are you… okay? You look…" Her words trailed off, unsure how to finish the thought.
The boy didn't respond immediately. He turned away, walking over to where his bag lay on the floor. Bending down, he picked it up, slinging it over his shoulder. Without meeting anyone's gaze, he said flatly, "I'll see you all tomorrow." Then, without another word, he walked off, disappearing down the hallway.
Sophia watched him leave, her hands wringing together. "Oh, by the Gods," she murmured. "What's happened to him?"
Salazar sighed heavily, shaking his head. "I'm afraid it's worse than we thought, Sophia. He's not getting any better. If anything, I fear he's slipping further into despair."
"That poor boy. I only wish…" Sophia began, but her words faltered, unable to finish the thought.
Helga stepped forward, her curiosity momentarily shifting the mood. She reached out and gently held Shana's hands, causing the rabbit therianthrope to squeak in surprise. "Ooh, I've never seen a rabbit therianthrope before! Wolves, cats, tigers—sure—but rabbits are new. Where did you come from?"
Shana blinked, her aquamarine eyes wide before shifting downward, her long ears drooping slightly. "I… I come from a place beyond the oceans," she said quietly. "My tribe lived on an island before…" She trailed off, and a sadness filled her eyes.
Helga's expression softened immediately. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to bring that up."
Shana shook her head gently, offering a pained smile. "It's alright," she said. "I haven't been a slave long… it's all still new to me. But I suppose… it's a life I need to start accepting." She bowed slightly, her ears perking up faintly. "Thank you all for standing up for me. I'll never forget it."
"You're most welcome, Shana," Rowena said kindly, slipping her wand back into her robes. "Excalibur may be a place of learning and prestige, but even the grandest institutions harbor rot. Don't be afraid to stand your ground, and if any students mistreat you, speak to Mister Buffer, the Caretaker. He's someone you can rely on."
Shana nodded, her aquamarine eyes glistening with gratitude. "I'll… I'll keep that in mind."
Sophia's gaze flickered between the three friends. "Thank you for your kindness," she said earnestly. "But… I have to ask one thing of you—all of you. Please, take care of Godric. My heart couldn't bear it if something were to happen to him."
Salazar met her gaze, his expression steady but serious. "You have our word, Sophia," he said firmly.
Helga and Rowena nodded solemnly, a silent promise binding the three of them as Sophia and Shana turned to leave. The both of them walked quietly down the hallway, likely heading back to the kitchens, their footsteps fading into the distance.
Salazar, Helga, and Rowena remained rooted where they stood, sharing a heavy, wordless glance. The weight of their promise settled over them like a shroud as they gazed down the corridor where Godric had disappeared. Despite their resolve, an unspoken truth lingered between them—they didn't know how to help him. They were powerless against the darkness that had consumed him, unsure how to lift the crushing burden that weighed him down.
They missed him. They missed the Godric who had once been their fearless friend—the brazen, confident boy who stood unwaveringly for what was right, whose passion and fire lit up every room he entered. That boy, so full of life and determination, was gone. In his place was a shadow—a husk of a person crushed under the weight of grief, a soul searching for relief in the form of an ending.
And they would give anything—anything—to have him back.