Bran's head snapped toward the sudden rattle echoing from the far end of the shelves. His eyes narrowed, just slightly, instincts flaring with quiet urgency. He was certain he was the only one authorised to be down here at this hour. And the archives—sealed, sacred, and buried beneath the Tower—were never the sort of place for unexpected company.
His fingers slipped into the inside of his coat, drawing his wand from its concealed holster. The ashen wood caught a faint shimmer beneath the crystal lights mounted above, its tip already beginning to hum with a low magical charge. Cane in one hand, wand in the other, Bran began to move—his pace slow, deliberate, each step echoing faintly on the stone floor.
He kept his breathing steady, his eyes flicking between the shelves as he moved deeper into the labyrinthine vault. When he reached the final row, he paused. Drew in a breath. Then stepped out, wand raised—ready to strike.
Nothing.
Just stillness. Empty shadow.
And then—he felt it.
A sudden charge in the air. The faint scent of ozone. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He spun around—but too late. A hand grabbed his collar, yanking him forward. Bran found himself staring into a charged fist, crackling with electricity, ready to punch a hole through his face.
His wand shot up instinctively, pointed squarely at the man's head. For a moment, neither moved. Their eyes locked.
"Laxus?" Bran breathed.
"Bran?" came the reply, just as stunned.
The tension broke like a snapped wire. Laxus released his shirt, the electric charge dissipating in a crackle. Bran lowered his wand, exhaling as he slid it back into his coat.
"What in the blazes are you doing down here?" Bran asked, straightening his collar. "Scratch that—how did you get down here? These archives are restricted to Tower personnel."
Laxus folded his arms and gave him a look—equal parts irritation and smug amusement. "Honestly, Bran. You think you're the only one with friends in high places? Don't flatter yourself."
"Right," Bran said dryly. "Because confessing to criminal favors in front of an Adjudicator is a marvelous idea."
Laxus smirked, saying nothing as he followed Bran back to the central table.
"Next time," Bran muttered, limping as he walked, "perhaps knock before nearly giving me a stroke."
Laxus let out a low whistle as he glanced over the desk, eyeing the chaos of open files, parchment, and old documents spread out before him.
"Damn, you've been busy," he said, rolling his shoulder with a slight wince. He folded his arms, leaning against the table with a grunt. "Guess the lad's words hit you harder than you're letting on, huh?"
Bran didn't respond right away, his attention already back on the parchment beneath his hand.
"If you're waiting on an apology, don't bother," Laxus went on. "I meant what I said. Every damn word. I've thought the Tower was a pile of bureaucratic bullshit since the day they hauled Asriel off for something I knew he didn't do."
Bran shrugged. "Wasn't expecting one. And… I'm afraid you might be right."
Laxus blinked. "Hold up. Did you just agree with me?"
Bran met his gaze. "Must I repeat myself?"
Laxus grinned, placing a hand over his chest in mock disbelief. "Well, hell. Give me a second, I wanna savor this moment." He let out a dramatic sigh. "So this is what it's like, huh? Being the stuck-up smart guy in the room? Gotta admit… it's kinda nice."
Bran sighed, dry as ever. "If you're quite done congratulating yourself, get over here. I want your eyes on this."
Laxus stepped in closer, eyes scanning the table. "That's a hell of a lot of black ink for what's supposed to be an open-and-shut murder case." He tapped a finger on one of the loose sheets. "And check this out—the whole damn trial was wrapped up in under a week. I'm no barrister, but don't these things usually drag on for months? Sometimes years?"
Bran gave a slow nod, reaching for another page. "That's exactly what's been gnawing at me. The timeline's all wrong. And the records—conflicting testimonies, half-baked examinations, contradictory statements from the witnesses. It's a bloody mess."
He slid a manila folder closer, flipping through it. "And the cause of death…"
"The Killing Curse?" Laxus's brow lifted. "Yeah, no. I know Asriel. If there's one thing that man loathes, it's casting spells in a fight. Not magic itself, mind you—just using it like that. He's a sword man, through and through. If he were gonna kill someone, it sure as hell wouldn't be with a wand."
Bran exhaled slowly, then set the page down. "And here's the kicker—everything. From the arrest, to the investigation, the trial, even the sentencing… all of it fell under Director Lamar's direct purview."
Laxus went quiet for a second, then tilted his head. "So… you saying what I think you're saying?"
Bran hesitated. "Yes. No. I—I don't know," he said, dropping the file onto the pile and rubbing at his temple. "Part of me wants to say Lamar orchestrated the whole bloody thing. That he manipulated the case from start to finish. But if I say that… if I even entertain it…" His eyes flicked to Laxus. "Then I'm saying the man who leads the Tower—the symbol of justice in all of Avalon—perverted everything it stands for."
Laxus stared at him for a moment before muttering, "Sounds like something worth losing sleep over."
Bran stepped forward, his expression hardening. "If—and it's a massive if—Lamar Burgess, Director of the Clock Tower, truly orchestrated all of this… if he covered it up and condemned an innocent man to die…"
He let out a breath, steady but heavy. "It wouldn't just cause ripples. It would send shockwaves through Avalon. You've seen how fragile public trust is, Laxus. If word gets out that the Tower, the supposed bedrock of justice, is rotten at its core?" He shook his head. "It'll make the Dah'tan incident look like a schoolyard scuffle. The Tower… Hell, the world won't recover from it. Not this time."
Laxus folded his arms, jaw tight. "I don't know about you, Bran, but if the Tower really is that far gone, then maybe it deserves to fall. People like Lamar—men who sit pretty in their ivory towers, laying down the law while believing it doesn't apply to them? They've had it too easy for too damn long."
His eyes narrowed. "And if that bastard really used the law to bury Asriel for his own gain? To tear Godric's world apart simply because he can?" His lip curled. "Then I'll take his damned head off myself. That's a promise."
Bran gave a quiet laugh. "You planning to adopt Godric as your long-lost brother now?"
Laxus smirked. "Feels like it, doesn't it?" He glanced to the floor, quieter now. "In a way… he's the kind of person I always hoped Volg might've become." He sighed. "Wishful thinking, I guess."
The larger man exhaled. "What I haven't figured out," Laxus muttered, eyes narrowing, "is why." He turned back to the scattered documents. "Why would Lamar go through all this trouble? Why single out the Se'lais? Keenah wasn't high on the food chain—just an Auditor, wasn't he?"
Bran rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That's the part that doesn't sit right with me either. I went digging for anything on Keenah—his assignments, his caseload, internal memos—but there's nothing. It's like he and everything he was working on just… vanished."
"You think Lamar had it wiped?"
"Possibly," Bran said, his gaze darkening. "But from what little I've managed to dig up through contacts in Internal Affairs… Keenah was onto something. Something big. Whatever it was, it had the potential to bring the entire Tower crumbling down."
Laxus gave a low whistle. "Now that sounds like something worth killing for." He gave a crooked grin. "If I were a betting man—and I am—I'd wager Keenah had dirt on half the bastards in power. Enough to send 'em straight to Revel's End, or the executioner's block if they were lucky."
"Still…" Bran shifted a page across the desk, revealing a sheet scrawled with a dozen names. "That doesn't explain this. These are the confirmed targets Asriel and Nemesis went after. None of them had anything to do with the Valerian case. Not directly."
Laxus leaned over, scanning the list. "Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way," he said. "We've been trying to figure out how these names connect to Asriel... but what if it's the other way around? What if the real link between them is Lamar?"
Bran's fingers halted mid-tap. "Now that you mention it…" He tapped the parchment again, this time slower. "A lot of these names? They were hand-picked for their positions. Appointed under Lamar's directive."
"And I'll bet good coin they've been licking his boots long before he made Director," Laxus said, crossing his arms. "Half the people in the Slavers' Union operate the same way. You'd be staggered by how many two-faced bastards claw their way into power by groveling under the table first."
Bran nodded slowly. "So you're saying these people weren't just random targets. They were part of something. A faction. A network."
"I'm saying they were his inner circle," Laxus replied. "His loyal dogs. And now they're being hunted down one by one."
Bran's breath caught. "Then this isn't just vengeance…"
Laxus looked at him. "It's a purge."
"You know," Bran murmured, eyes narrowing in thought, "back in Stornoway… when Asriel confronted Captain Hoffman—it didn't feel like a coincidence. That moment… it was personal. He knew him. And Hoffman—he recognized Asriel too."
Laxus tilted his head, thinking. "Yeah, that wasn't just a run-in."
Bran turned sharply. "You don't think… Hoffman was there. The night of the murders?"
A heavy silence passed between them.
"By the Gods…" Bran pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. This is spiraling out of hand."
"Out of hand?" Laxus raised an eyebrow. "Bran, we've got something. A real trail. The names, the redactions, the timing—hell, it's all lining up. We take this to someone who's not in Lamar's pocket and we might actually get somewhere. Maybe even knock that smug bastard off his throne."
Bran shook his head. "It's not that simple. The man's been Director for over two decades. He's built alliances in every corner of the Tower, the courts, even the ruling class. You don't survive that long without planting roots deep into the system. Half of both the Wizarding Council and the Council Of Kings still see him as a hero. The other half… they probably owe him favors."
Laxus frowned. "So what, we sit on this? Let him keep walking free while the rest of us rot in the dirt?"
"I'm saying we need to be precise," Bran said calmly. "We don't know who we can trust. We take this to the wrong person; it'll disappear faster than you can blink—and us along with it."
Laxus ran a hand down his face. "Gods, I hate politics."
Bran gestured to the names sprawled across the parchment. "If I can put even one of them in that house the night of the murder—if I can prove they were tied to Keenah's investigation, to the cover-up—that gives us cause. Something the Courts can't ignore."
Laxus nodded slowly. "Alright. So we keep digging. Quiet. Careful. No sudden moves."
Bran glanced up, the weight of it all pressing down. "We find the right thread… and pull. Hard enough… the whole thing might unravel."
****
The familiar clatter of cutlery against porcelain echoed through the Great Hall, blending with the low hum of conversation that drifted across the tables. Hundreds of students were gathered for dinner, their chatter ranging from the mundanities of schoolwork to the more light-hearted dramas of dorm life. Yet among the older students—especially those native to Caerleon—there was a darker undercurrent.
Rumors had taken root like weeds, whispers of Guardians and Aurors gone missing, or worse—found in grotesque condition throughout the city. Word had it the Sheriff was scrambling to contain the truth, desperate to keep the public calm and avoid stirring the already irritable wrath of the mayor. But only a fool would remain blind to what was happening beyond the school gates.
The Tower's guards muttered among themselves, voices low, breaths shallow. Fear gnawed at their insides like rot, each patrol a gamble with fate. The badge that once brought pride now felt like a target stitched to their chests. Some had quietly begun preparing farewells they hoped they'd never have to deliver—letters to loved ones, final instructions tucked into desk drawers.
The thought of dying in a back alley, reduced to just another corpse in a mounting body count, loomed heavier with every passing day. And as that weight bore down on them, a question began to form in more than one mind: Was it all worth it?
But within the walls of Excalibur, for the likes of Godric, Salazar, Rowena, Helga, and Jeanne, the chaos of the outside world felt far away. For now, at least, it was easier to pretend the storm hadn't yet reached them.
Helga let out a dramatic cough, thumping her chest with one hand. "By Bacchus' butterbeer, I swear I'm going to be coughing up hairballs for a week." She gulped from her chalice. "Who knew kneazles could shed that much?"
"I could have told you that, my dear," Salazar replied dryly, poking at a slice of roast beef. "Another reason I detest the wretched things. They ruin my robes and assault my sinuses. Truly vile creatures."
"That's what you say about all magical beasts, Salazar," Rowena sighed, snapping her book shut. "At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if your favorite creature turned out to be a basilisk."
"At least basilisks don't leave a pillow's worth of fur behind every five minutes," Salazar muttered, rolling his eyes. "Though, I will admit I've got a soft spot for Puffskeins. Unlike those other fuzzy, thieving abominations, they actually help with my sinuses."
"Well, if your idea of a delightful pet is one that can kill you with a glance," Rowena said, flashing a teasing smile, "then by all means—keep your monstrous taste."
Salazar popped the slice of beef into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "You might say we have that in common." His smirk widened, a glint of mischief in his gaze.
Jeanne set her fork down beside her empty plate. "All things considered, I rather enjoyed today's Care of Magical Creatures lesson," she said. "Even if I was constantly surrounded by kneazles."
"They loved you!" Helga beamed. "Honestly, it was like watching a kneazle whisperer in action. They wouldn't leave you alone."
Godric, however, paid little attention to the ongoing chatter. His eyes were fixed on the long table, where Professor Kyar sat deep in conversation with Professor Workner. Her tiger-like tail flicked lazily behind her, swaying just in front of Professor Ashford, who stared at it like a curious feline himself—half tempted to swat at it, though clearly struggling to suppress the urge.
Salazar, having long since noticed where his friend's attention lay, let a sly grin curl onto his lips. "Still puzzling over our dear Professor Kyar, are you, my brave lion cub?"
Godric blinked, caught off guard. "What? No—it's not like that."
"I can't blame you," Rowena said matter-of-factly. "You've never seen a pureblooded therian before. Most haven't."
She raised a finger as she launched into explanation. "As I said before, therianthropes, as a race, have always had more… liberal customs—particularly when it comes to copulation."
"And there it is again," Helga said with a smirk, nudging Salazar. "Her favorite word."
Salazar nodded sagely. "The Rowena Ravenclaw Special."
"Oh, grow up," Rowena sighed, rolling her eyes. "As I was saying—because of those customs, therians were among the first races to interbreed with others. Humans especially. And after centuries of it, the majority of their population today are what we call 'common therians'—mostly human in appearance, with minor animal traits. Like Shana, and Rai—"
She stopped, catching the subtle shift in Godric's expression. A faint shadow passed behind his eyes.
Rowena cleared her throat. "In any case, the number of pureblooded therians—true Bestias—had dropped drastically. In response, their tribes implemented a law to preserve the bloodlines. For example, Professor Kyar's from the Tiger Tribe, based up north past Camelot. The larger clans—Fox, Rabbit, Wolf—they all agreed. Pureblooded therians are forbidden from reproducing with outsiders."
Jeanne's eyes widened. "Are you telling me that they can't form relationships with anyone outside their race? That's law?"
"Exactly," Rowena said, nodding. "It's enforced among all the major tribes. Anyone who breaks it faces severe consequences. Social exile at best. At worst—well, worse."
Helga's face fell. "That's awful," she said softly. "To love someone and know you can't be with them, not because of distance or fate, but because the law forbids it…"
She trailed off, the weight of her words dawning on her too late. Her eyes flicked toward Godric. He had already turned away, his face half-shadowed under the glow of the hall's crystal lights.
"If Professor Kyar's an Excalibur professor, why haven't I seen her before now?" Godric asked, eyes drifting back toward the tiger therianthrope seated at the teacher's table.
"She's been away on special assignment," Helga said, smiling as she reached for another roll. "Same way Professor Serfence was off on his own. Professor Kyar's Avalon's top expert on magical creatures. The Librarium often requests her help with studying and cataloguing newly discovered species. She just got back from a dragon expedition, actually—somewhere in the far reaches of the continent."
"Librarium?" Jeanne echoed, raising an eyebrow.
"She means the Wandering Sea," Rowena clarified, folding her hands atop her book. "Though most refer to them as the Librarium, since they're the official caretakers of the Library of Alexandra. The largest repository of magical knowledge in the known world."
Jeanne's expression lit with intrigue. "Sounds like a place I'd very much like to visit."
"As would I," Rowena said with a nod.
"To add to the rather colorful tale of Professor Kyar," Salazar began, idly swirling the last of his raspberry juice, "allow me to offer a more...political detail."
Everyone turned to him, even Godric, who leaned in slightly.
"Pureblooded therians," Salazar continued, "are protected by an accord signed with the Slavers' Guild. It grants them full immunity from enslavement."
Godric blinked. "Wait—you're saying slavers aren't allowed to touch them?"
"Correct," Salazar nodded. "Though not out of kindness or moral conviction. The pureblooded tribes—tiger, wolf, fox, bear—fiercely guard their own. A slaver who dares breach that accord tends not to live long enough to repeat the offence. There've been enough...examples made to dissuade further attempts."
Rowena leaned slightly forward. "And the Authority won't intervene. They've neither the manpower, nor the nerve."
"So the Slavers' Guild simply chose the path of least resistance," Salazar finished, shrugging. "They declared all Bestias off-limits. It was a compromise. Keep the peace and leave the tribes alone."
Jeanne's gaze tightened. "What about the rest? The ones who aren't purebloods?"
Salazar's expression darkened just a touch. "Common therians? They're fair game."
He turned his eyes toward the far end of the hall. Shana, the rabbit therianthrope, was just disappearing through the kitchen doors, a towering stack of dishes in her arms. She used her back to nudge them open, shoulders hunched low.
"That's probably why the Guild agreed to the accord at all," Salazar said. "There are plenty of half-bloods to profit from. No need to risk their lives for the few they can't touch."
Godric didn't speak. He just stared at the door where Shana had gone through, his jaw set in thought.
"Our Lord in Heaven…" Jeanne exhaled, her shoulders drawing up slightly. "I've seen cruelty before, but to think that such barbarism could exist in a world so advanced, so proper—so civilized…"
"My dear Jeanne," Salazar said, swirling the last of his drink, "the more things change, the more they remain the same." He set his goblet down with a soft clink. "If there's one constant in the story of mankind, it's this—every atrocity, every cruelty, every unspeakable act has been committed in pursuit of one thing." He leaned forward. "Gold. Coin. Wealth."
He gestured with a flick of his fingers. "So long as coin keeps the gears turning, this grand, glittering machine we call civilization will chug along—never for justice, never for peace—but for profit. And as long as pockets remain fat and full, the suffering of others will remain someone else's concern."
"Greed is only one of the seven deadly sins, Salazar," Jeanne said, her brow furrowed. "Allowing it to rule us leads only to ruin—and away from the path God has set."
"Indeed," Salazar mused, smirking faintly. "But as I recall, there are six more sins in that collection. And if experience has taught me anything, one always leads to another. Pride. Envy. Lust. Gluttony. Wrath…" His eyes turned pointedly toward Rowena. "A fitting one, wouldn't you say? Especially now, given the chaos surrounding the Clock Tower."
Rowena stiffened slightly, caught off guard by the remark. She opened her mouth to reply but hesitated.
Salazar only chuckled, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. "As delightful as this moral symposium has been, I'm afraid I must take my leave. A quick trip to Caerleon awaits—I've a few personal effects that require collecting."
Rowena narrowed her eyes. "You're not off to Cromley & Thorne's again, are you? Hunting for more cursed artefacts?" She crossed her arms. "Shall I remind you what happened the last time you brought back something small, dark, and whispering?"
Salazar gasped dramatically. Hand pressed to his chest. "Rowena, how you wound me. I'll have you know I've sworn off cursed trinkets. I now dabble only in those with mild enchantments." He flashed a grin. "At ease, my ever-watchful raven—I solemnly swear, this time, I'm up to absolutely no mischief."
Rowena gave him a look. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
"Duly noted," Salazar said, rising from his seat as he smoothed out his robes. "I wish you all a pleasant evening and…"—his gaze shifted to Godric—"for Scáthach's sake, try not to crack any more skulls tonight. Think of poor Doctor Adani's blood pressure."
Godric gave a half-shrug, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Salazar gave a gracious bow. "Now, as they so charmingly say in France—je vous dis adieu." He offered Jeanne a wink, turned on his heel, and strolled toward the great doors with his usual theatrical flair.
The four watched him vanish through the archway and into the corridor beyond.
"He's absolutely going to bring back something cursed and horrid, isn't he?" Helga said, her expression flat.
"No doubt about it," Rowena replied with a sigh. "We should start preparing the counter-hexes now."
Godric turned his gaze back to the teachers' table—just in time to witness Professor Kyar and Professor Workner frozen in stunned silence, both staring at Professor Ashford. The man sat rigidly, wide-eyed, with Professor Kyar's striped tail somehow clamped between his teeth. His hands were raised halfway in surrender, shoulders hunched as if even he wasn't sure how it had ended up there.
Kyar's expression was unreadable—somewhere between disbelief and the simmering edge of fury. Workner simply blinked, as though trying to process the absurdity before him.
Ashford gave an awkward, muffled grunt, slowly removing the tail from his mouth. "...In my defense," he began, "it did look rather fluffy."