The sharp rapping of knuckles against the thick oaken door echoed through the quiet corridor. Langston exhaled slowly, already anticipating what awaited him on the other side—an expectation that did little to ease his growing irritation. A muffled voice called out from within, granting him permission to enter. Wrapping his gloved hand around the brass doorknob, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, his boots tapping lightly against the polished wooden floor.
The office exuded an air of quiet authority, rustic yet refined, steeped in deep, earthy tones. The wooden-paneled walls bore thick green fabric drapes, while heavy grey curtains hung partially drawn over sleek, metallic-framed windows. Langston's gaze flickered across the various framed certificates and awards adorning the walls, some dating back to long before he had set foot in the academy. Newspaper clippings, yellowed with age, spoke of triumphs and accolades—of a man whose legacy had been carved into the very foundations of the Clock Tower.
Finally, his eyes settled on the man seated behind the imposing mahogany desk.
Director Lamar Burgess. A face known to all within the Tower.
The older man glanced up from the documents in his hands, removing his thinly framed glasses with a deliberate slowness.
"Ah, Captain Langston," he greeted, a practiced smile on his lips, though his sharp gaze remained unreadable. "Do come in."
Langston stepped closer but stopped just shy of the desk, hands resting at his sides.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" he asked.
"At ease," Lamar said, settling his glasses back atop the papers before rising from his chair. "And for the love of the Gods, relax. You're not in trouble."
Langston remained stiff, his posture rigid, arms instinctively clasped behind his back. Lamar's smirk twitched in amusement as he placed a firm hand on the younger man's shoulder.
"I've followed your career since you were but a cadet in the academy," he mused. "When they had you shipped off to Vol'dunin at the height of the orc conflict, I must admit, there were many up top who doubted you would return. Most believed you'd be nothing more than a name on a casualty report, another young officer lost to the flames of war."
He paced slowly before the desk, his fingers tapping absently against the polished wood.
"But you proved them wrong, didn't you? You followed orders—demonstrated the discipline, the resolve expected of an officer bearing the weight of Overdeath's legacy."
Langston's jaw tensed ever so slightly. "What is this about, Director?" His words were measured, though there was a trace of impatience beneath it.
Lamar turned, leaning casually against the edge of his desk, folding his arms as he regarded Langston with something between intrigue and calculation.
"Son," he said, "I don't need to tell you about the state of the Clock Tower." His gaze darkened. "Morale has sunk. Fear grips even the most seasoned of us. And public trust in the very institution that upholds the pillars of law and order?"
Lamar shook his head. "It's at an all-time low."
"I'm well aware, sir," Langston said, his expression remaining neutral. "But if you'll forgive me for asking—what exactly does that have to do with me?"
Lamar's smile brightened, his fingers tapping idly against the desk.
"I'm glad you asked." His tone carried the satisfaction of a man who had already planned several steps ahead. "You see, what the people need right now is inspiration—a reminder of the brave individuals in our ranks who risk their lives day in and day out to keep them safe." He paused for effect before leaning in slightly. "What they need, Captain, is a face."
His smile lingered.
"And I can't think of anyone better than the Hero of Vol'dunin himself."
Langston's brow arched slightly. "I'm afraid I don't follow."
Lamar let out a theatrical sigh, shaking his head as he pushed himself off the desk.
"Oh, come on, son. Must I really spell it out for you?" He gestured broadly. "I want you to pay a visit to the local station. Sit for a few interviews. Smile for the papers. Sign a couple of autographs." His grin sharpened. "You know—the usual."
Langston's expression barely shifted, but his tone took on a firmer edge.
"With all due respect, sir, I am a Guardian of AEGIS, not a celebrity. I believe it's highly inappropriate to flaunt my rank and my achievements as a means to—"
The sudden crack of a palm slamming against wood cut him off. "I decide what's appropriate, Captain Langston!"
Langston's jaw tightened slightly.
Lamar exhaled, his eyes flashing with something momentarily sharp before he smoothed a hand over his greying hair, collecting himself.
"My apologies, son," he said. "It's just… this goes beyond simple platitudes and public relations. The people rely on us. They see us as an unshakable, indestructible force—one that ensures that when they close their eyes at night, they'll awaken with the rise of the sun in a world without conflict, without suffering."
He stepped closer.
"You and I both know what it's like." His gaze was steady, unwavering. "That fear of the unknown. That crippling weight in your chest as you lie awake in the midst of an active battlefield, praying to the Gods that you'll live to see another day."
Lamar let the words settle, the silence between them thick with something unspoken.
"Wilhelm and I may have had our differences," Lamar continued, "and more than once, we found ourselves at odds—but I would never deny what he meant to the Tower. The paragon of truth, justice, and liberty—he didn't just represent those ideals, he embodied them."
He paused; eyes fixed on Langston. "I know he stood as an inspiration to you… as he did for many, both before and after your time."
"And you, Captain Langston, have the potential to carry that torch. To show the world that the legacy of Wilhelm Reinhardt—the legendary Overdeath—lives on. That no matter what darkness encroaches upon our doorstep, the Tower will endure."
Langston glanced down for a moment, the weight of the words settling over him. Then, lifting his head, he met Lamar's gaze.
"If it's for the Tower, sir… I'll do what I must."
"Splendid!" Lamar beamed as he circled back behind his desk and lowered himself into his chair with practiced ease. "Your first appearance is scheduled for three o'clock. That gives you a couple of hours to prepare."
He clasped his hands together. "Make the Tower proud, son."
Langston gave a crisp salute, then turned on his heel and exited the office.
Lamar watched the door close with a faint click, then slid his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. His eyes lingered on the doorway for a moment longer before a slow, crafty smile pulled at his lips.
****
The break area of the precinct was unusually quiet, a rare lull amidst the usual hum of conversation and the clatter of boots. The stillness wasn't born of peace, however—it was born of absence. Half the building's personnel were out on patrol or stationed at key points across the city, the heightened state of alert leaving precious few moments for rest. Tension clung to the walls like dust. No one said it aloud, but the fear was palpable. Every Guardian out on the beat wondered if they'd be the next to end up in a box—or worse, unrecognizable and scraped from the pavement, like what was left of the Ogre's men.
Whispers from the remaining members of the Seventeenth Division crept through the corridors like smoke. Their grief had curdled into suspicion. Many skulked between desks, murmuring questions that couldn't be answered. Some weren't shy about placing blame. Langston hadn't won their favor when he suspended their second-in-command, pending an internal investigation over her explosive outburst. Tensions simmered just beneath the surface—too hot to ignore, too raw to soothe.
Langston sat alone at a circular table in the corner of the cramped break area, nursing a black mug of coffee. Steam curled up from the surface, carrying with it the acrid, burnt scent that filled the tight space. The room itself was modest—almost too modest for a precinct this size. A fridge with a faded metal door, an old oven, and a vending machine lined one wall, its glowing holographic buttons casting a faint blue light across the linoleum floor. Behind its glass, rows of synthetic snacks and bottled stimulants offered little in the way of comfort.
He stared into his cup, but his thoughts were far from it.
The Director's words echoed in his mind like a song he couldn't shake. The request. The pitch. The performance.
A part of him felt insulted.
To be paraded around as a symbol—the Hero of Vol'dunin—a shining beacon for a city clinging to the edge of panic. It wasn't leadership the Tower wanted. It was an image. A rallying cry. A mask they could strap onto a crumbling face and pretend everything was fine. That AEGIS was still strong. That nothing had changed. That the blood in the streets was just a drop, not a deluge.
Langston had survived battlefields, endured loss, and earned every scar—yet this, this theatre, felt more exhausting than war.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He hadn't joined the Tower to play politics. He hadn't pledged his life to stand in front of cameras and recite platitudes. Wilhelm had warned him of this. Time and time again, the old man spoke of how much he despised being the Tower's emblem. How his title was waved about like some mythical totem—part bedtime story, part cautionary tale. Children were told to aspire to him. Adults were told to fear him.
And yet, Wilhelm never resisted it. Not truly. He accepted the burden, because the symbol mattered. Because people needed something to believe in—even if that belief came at the cost of his own peace.
Langston understood that now more than ever.
But understanding didn't make it any easier.
The quiet clink of porcelain on wood pulled Langston from his thoughts. He glanced up to see Frank standing over him, setting down a steaming mug before easing himself into the chair opposite.
"I know that look anywhere," Frank muttered, adjusting his seat with a grunt. "What is it this time?"
Langston blinked, caught off guard for just a second before managing a small smile. "Frank. Didn't hear you come in." He gave a shrug, cradling his own cup. "You know. The usual."
Frank raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip from his mug. His thick moustache twitched slightly as he swallowed. "Does the usual happen to go by the name Lamar Burgess, by any chance?"
Langston laughed softly, shaking his head. "Nothing gets past you, does it?"
He leaned back, letting the warmth of the coffee cut through the chill in his chest. "Yeah. Big L wants me to pop down to the news station. Smile for the cameras. Do the whole dance. Put the people at ease, let 'em think everything's sunshine and bloody rainbows here at the Tower."
"For real?" Frank huffed, brows rising. "By the Gods… it's Wilhelm all over again. Especially after the Dah'tan incident."
Langston's head tilted; brow furrowed. "That the one that practically handed Burgess the Director's seat?"
"Right you are," Frank nodded, leaning forward with both hands wrapped around his mug. "The Tower held the line, sure. Burgess came out of it looking like a hero, but the cost…"
He shook his head. "It gutted the land. Broke something in the people—and in us, if we're being honest. Took years of damage control. PR campaigns, outreach, and of course—good old Wilhelm, center stage in every poster and proclamation."
He gestured between them. "We were cadets back then. I still remember the bloody recruitment poster with Reinhardt's face on it. Was enough to get me through the door. What about you?"
Langston smirked faintly. "Guilty as charged. I still remember the line—'So others may sleep in peace.'"
Frank chuckled. "Yeah. That one."
Langston fell quiet for a moment, turning the mug between his fingers, watching the steam curl.
"I've seen the worst Avalon's got," he said at last. "Insurrections, rebellions, rogue factions… name a breed of mad bastard, we've probably had to put 'em down." He met Frank's gaze. "But never—not once—has the Tower looked this cornered."
His voice lowered. "You were there… that night. At Stornoway."
Frank didn't flinch, but the name hung heavy in the air between them.
"I won't ask if it was real. I've seen too much to doubt anything anymore. But I will ask this…" Langston leaned forward slightly. "Do you think we'll survive it?"
Frank took a breath, slow and deliberate. He lifted his mug, taking a long sip before setting it back down.
"A part of me wants to say I don't know," he admitted, eyes fixed on the dark liquid swirling in his cup. "But truth is… the other part already knows the answer."
His gaze met Langston's.
"And I reckon you do too."
Langston drew in a long, steady breath before lifting his mug. He took a measured gulp, letting the bitter warmth settle in his chest, then quietly placed the empty cup down on the table.
"They call me the Hero of Vol'dunin," he said. "Still do. And every time I hear it, it makes my bloody skin crawl."
His gaze drifted toward the far wall, but it didn't seem like he was looking at it—only through it, into the fog of memory.
"They didn't see what I saw. Didn't feel what I felt. I was just a boy when they shipped me off to the frontlines, still too young to shave properly, and suddenly I was surrounded by blood, mud, and fire."
He gave a small shrug, though it felt more like surrender than indifference. "The ranks I climbed—those promotions—they weren't earned through bravery or honor. I rose because the men above me kept dying."
He paused; eyes shadowed.
"I watched good men fall. Friends. Brothers. I stopped counting how many. And every time I had to knock on a door and look a widow, a mother, a child in the eye… tell them their husband, their son, their father wasn't coming home—" his voice faltered briefly, "—I heard the screams. Not from the battlefield, but from the homes I visited. The kind that stays with you. That crawls inside your bones."
Frank remained silent, eyes fixed on him, a quiet empathy etched into the creases of his weathered face. He didn't interrupt. He didn't need to.
"I did things, Frank. Terrible things." Langston said. "Things I once thought only monsters were capable of. I told myself it was for the Tower. For justice. For peace." He shook his head. "But if I'm being honest… it was for me. So I wouldn't become another nameless corpse rotting in a trench. So I'd matter to someone. Anyone."
His fingers curled slightly against the tabletop.
"I have long feared that my sins would return to visit me…" He trailed off. "And the cost is more than I can bear."
Frank sat back, exhaling through his nose before lifting his own mug for a slow sip. When he finally spoke.
"Shane… it's in the past."
He set the mug down and met Langston's gaze.
"And it was war. You did what had to be done. So did I. Gods know I've got enough blood on my hands to drown in. I'm no saint—never claimed to be. And if heaven's closed its gates to the likes of us, then so be it."
He tapped a finger gently against the table.
"But the choices we made… they're ours. We carry them. We answer for them. Not the Tower. Not the people. Just us—and whatever gods are still listening."
The silence that followed was heavy, but not cold. It was the silence of two men who had seen too much and survived more than they should have.
They were both stirred from their thoughts by the faint shuffle of footsteps.
Langston turned his head, and Frank followed suit. Standing at the threshold was a young woman—mid-twenties, by the look of her—dressed in the standard-issue grey of an AEGIS Guardian. Her dark ginger hair was neatly braided into twin tails, and she clutched a clipboard to her chest as if it were armor. Nervous hazel eyes flicked between the two men.
"I—I'm sorry," she stammered. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
Langston offered a reassuring smile. "No, no, you're fine, Iris." He stood, brushing off his coat slightly before gesturing towards Frank. "Oh, where are my manners? Frank, this is Iris Nauman. Just joined the Guardians—Fourteenth Division. One of mine."
Frank gave a lazy salute from where he sat. "Pleasure."
Iris blinked, recognition lighting her features. "Wait—Frank Reagan?" Her eyes widened slightly. "I've heard loads about you. Especially about the Battle of Falmouth."
"Oh, really?" Langston raised an eyebrow, turning to Frank with a smirk. "Funny how those stories never made it into casual conversation. Lieutenant Reagan—the silent hero?"
Frank shot him a dry look. "Trample off, Langston." He took a sip of his coffee. "I'm just a man. Same as you."
Iris quickly stepped forward, offering the clipboard to Langston. "I brought the list of questions and pre-drafted answers you asked for. I took the liberty of putting them together based on previous media templates—should help keep things smooth."
Langston took it with a nod of appreciation. "Brilliant, thanks. You've just made this whole thing marginally less painful."
He pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. "Right, best get this circus over with." He gave Frank a small nod. "I'll catch you later."
"Don't let the flashbulbs blind you," Frank called after him with a grin.
Langston chuckled under his breath, clipboard tucked under one arm as he stepped out, Iris trailing behind.
Frank leaned back in his chair, hands still wrapped around the warm mug, the last of his coffee swirling gently at the bottom. His thoughts drifted to the conversation he and Langston had just shared. He sighed, shook his head faintly, and drained the rest of his drink before rising to his feet.
****
Far from the turmoil of Caerleon and the hallowed halls of Excalibur Academy, the Crown City of Camelot remained as bustling as ever—but beneath its surface, tension simmered.
Within the towering stronghold of the Clock Tower Headquarters, a heavy silence had settled over the corridors. The news of Captain Clegane's violent demise had sent a shockwave through every division of AEGIS, cracking the facade of invulnerability that had long surrounded the organization.
The ripple effect was immediate. Guardians, agents, analysts—even senior officers—walked the halls as though shadows clung to their heels. Whispers spread like smoke through the marble chambers. Some revisited old sins. Others made quiet apologies behind closed doors. Many wondered if the ghosts of their pasts might be next to claw their way to the surface.
Bran Ravenclaw, however, was not among those paralyzed by fear.
The tales of Nemesis and Azriel Valerian did not shake him—they stirred something far deeper. A relentless need to understand. To know. To piece together the truth hidden beneath a decade of secrecy and silence. Recently discharged from the hospital, Bran had wasted no time. Cane in hand, he made his way into the bowels of the Tower—down through layers of sealed corridors and security gates, into the subterranean archives.
Buried several stories below ground, the Tower Archives were a realm unto themselves: endless shelves of records, reports, and sealed cases, dating back centuries. Few ever ventured down here unless they had cause—and Bran had cause.
The stone walls were cold but dry, and the air was heavy with the scent of dust, parchment, and something older—forgotten. Soft crystal lights glowed from sconces, casting long shadows between rows of metallic shelves.
Bran moved slowly, each step aided by the cane at his side. His fingers skimmed along the spines of black file folders, reading faded labels etched in gold ink. When he found the one he was looking for, he slid it free and made his way to the nearest table—an aged oak surface already strewn with loose papers, notations, and worn documents from earlier searches.
He laid the file down beside the others. There were nearly a dozen folders now—each one bearing a different date, a different name. A different missing piece of the same cursed puzzle. With a quiet breath, Bran pushed his glasses higher on his nose, unfastened the clasp of the folder, and began to read. His finger traced the lines of text, eyes scanning every word written in faded, blackened ink.
Valerian, Azriel. Age eighteen at time of incident. Former Student of Excalibur Academy, House Ferrum. Former Ferrum Visionary. Status: Deceased. Case: Sealed.
Bran's brow furrowed.
So much had been redacted, so many names struck through, rewritten, or buried under official jargon.
But it was there—beneath the bureaucratic veil. A trail. A story.
Something gnawed at the edges of Bran's mind—a quiet, persistent unease that refused to be silenced. It had started with Asriel. Then Godric. Even fragments from his grandfather's words. All of it pointed back to the same place: the Valerian case.
It had been a scandal unlike any other. A case that had shaken the very foundations of the Tower, sending ripples of fear and confusion through the highest ranks and down into the streets of Caerleon. Bran remembered it well—he'd been the Ventus Visionary at the time, still young, still believing in the purity of the system. But that illusion hadn't survived the storm.
The Academy had reeled from the backlash. Parents had flooded the gates, demanding answers, some withdrawing their children entirely. The idea that a student—someone they had lived beside, studied with, grown close to—could have been a monster in disguise was a public relations nightmare that took months to smooth over.
And yet… Bran had never believed it. Not truly.
Nor had Laxus. Nor any of the other Visionaries who had known Asriel. His reputation had always been a complicated one—The Terror of Death, they called him. A nickname that struck fear into the hearts of the Clans and earned him more whispers than friends in the halls of the Congregation. But those who truly knew him understood one thing beyond doubt:
Asriel would never have harmed her.
The more Bran pored over the files, the more the details refused to make sense. Timelines blurred. Statements contradicted one another. Evidence was either vague or redacted entirely. What troubled him most, however, was the name stamped across the top of every page:
Director Lamar Burgess—case overseer.
That detail had always been there, hiding in plain sight, yet somehow forgotten amidst the noise. At the time, it was lost in the chaos, buried beneath the outrage and the bloodlust for justice. But now, with distance, it stood out like a blade in the dark.
It was highly irregular.
Bran's fingers traced over the latest page—handwritten witness testimony—his eyes narrowing as yet another contradiction presented itself. The pattern wasn't just strange. It was deliberate. Something had happened all those years ago. Something enormous. Something awful. And the Tower had buried it.
Godric's words still echoed in his thoughts. If Asriel was guilty… why did the sword choose him? The Sword of Damocles—a mythical relic forged to pass judgement, to grant its power only to those who stood for justice in its purest form.
It had chosen Asriel.
That alone shattered the narrative.
So many questions—and Bran was beginning to fear the answers. Not because they might be painful, but because they might challenge everything he believed about the Tower. About truth and justice.
About the institution he had dedicated his entire life to upholding.