The black ropes binding Bastion writhed once more before slithering back into the swirling portals embedded in the walls. One by one, the dark gateways folded in on themselves and vanished. Bastion dropped to his knees, coughing as he clutched at his throat, drawing ragged breaths. The silence that followed was broken only by the patter of rain and the crackle of distant magic still fading from the air. A collective breath escaped the survivors—what few remained.
Langston's gaze didn't leave Hartshorne.
He marched forward, ignoring the pain flaring in his side. His jaw clenched.
"What did he mean?" Langston said. "Orgrim. What was he talking about?"
Hartshorne met his glare. "If you're looking for an apology, Captain, you'll find none. The orc was right. We used you as bait."
Langston stopped. "What?"
"This whole thing—your interview, the public stroll, the diner—it was all planned." Hartshorne's words held no remorse. "Burgess wanted a move, and I gave him one. If Darqtide and his monsters were still in Caerleon, they'd come for you. It was inevitable."
Langston's fists trembled. "So, you dangled me like meat in a pit… hoping one of them would bite."
"Exactly." Hartshorne straightened. "You were the one piece valuable enough to draw them out."
"You son of a—" Langston stepped forward; his fury barely contained. "You said you had eyes on me since I left the precinct?"
Hartshorne nodded once. "We tracked your route. Watched you walk right into the trap. We even positioned response teams three blocks out, just in case—"
Langston's breath hitched. He turned to look back—toward the shattered diner window. Toward the broken counter.
Toward Iris.
"You knew where I was. You knew what was coming. You could've stopped it."
Hartshorne gave a slow shrug. "She was an acceptable loss. Collateral. Calculated. Within tolerance."
Langston's eyes went wide.
"In fact," Hartshorne continued, "it was my idea—"
The sentence never finished. Langston's fist connected with Hartshorne's face, hard. Bone crunched. The sheriff staggered, then collapsed backward onto the wet ground, blood streaming from his nose and lips.
Langston followed him down, straddling his chest, fists slamming again and again into his face.
"You bastard!"
Another punch.
"She was a just a kid!"
Another.
"You let her die!"
Blood splattered across Langston's coat, his knuckles raw and torn.
It wasn't rage that filled him now. It was guilt. And something far worse.
He didn't stop.
Not until Bastion dragged him off and held him back with all the strength he had left.
"She had nothing to do with this!" he cried.
More vehicles rolled in, headlights cutting through the curtain of rain as boots hit the asphalt in synchronized rhythm. Dozens of guards flooded the scene, forming a tight perimeter around the carnage. A handful rushed toward the diner, slipping across the soaked pavement to check for survivors.
Two guards made their way to Hartshorne, helping the bloodied sheriff to his feet. He shrugged them off with a growl, stumbling once before steadying himself. He lifted a hand to his face, fingers brushing against his split lip. Blood smeared across his glove, diluted by the downpour. He stared at it for a long moment before spitting to the ground, fury bubbling beneath the surface.
He turned sharply toward Langston.
"You're lucky Lamar still finds you useful," Hartshorne hissed. "If he didn't, I'd have you in chains—thrown in a cell and beaten until you remembered who gives the bloody orders around here."
Langston didn't flinch. He stepped forward, the rain sliding down the sharp angles of his face, mixing with the blood on his collar.
"And you're lucky Burgess still has his hand wrapped around your leash, mutt," Langston growled. "Because if it were up to me, you'd be zipped into a bag and rolled out with the rest of the dead."
His gaze flicked briefly toward the diner—toward the body inside—before settling on Hartshorne again, colder than ever.
"Listen to me, and listen well," he said with a quiet snarl. "If you ever pull something like this again—on me, or anyone under my command—I swear to every God in Avalon, you won't live to see the sunrise."
His lip curled.
"That's not a threat, George. That's a promise."
Hartshorne looked as though he might snap back, his mouth half-open, breath shallow with restrained fury—when a sharp shrill of steel against asphalt cut through the air.
All eyes turned.
Bastion stood a few paces behind Langston, his greatsword drawn. The crimson blade scraped across the ground before he tilted it upright, its razor edge pointed squarely at the sheriff. His stance was steady, the weight of the blade effortless in his grip. Mismatched eyes—one storm-grey, the other golden—locked on Hartshorne with cold, unflinching contempt.
No words were needed. The message was clear.
Hartshorne's jaw tensed. He scoffed, his pride smarting, but wisely chose not to escalate. With a bitter glare and rain dripping from his brow, he turned sharply on his heel.
"Get to work," he barked at the nearest guards. He didn't look back as he stalked toward one of the waiting vehicles, the other officers silently falling into step behind him.
****
Bastion let out a breath, sliding his greatsword back into the holster across his back with a metallic click. "Bastard," he muttered, stepping up beside Langston.
"Always has been," Langston replied, spitting to the side. "Man's been riding Lamar's coattails so long I'm surprised he hasn't choked on the fabric. Wilhelm used to call him Lamar's pet whore."
Bastion stifled a laugh. "Sounds like something Grandpa would've said."
Langston's eyes shifted toward the diner, where a pair of medics zipped Iris's body into a black bag. His jaw tightened. His fingers clenched. Bastion caught the way the Captain's posture shifted—straighter, colder, but not stronger.
"I'm sorry, Cap," Bastion said quietly. "If I'd gotten here sooner—"
"Don't," Langston cut him off. "Don't do that. This wasn't your failure. It was mine." He paused, glancing back toward the bag now being lifted onto a stretcher. "I've played that scenario out in my head more times than I can count—how I could've done things differently. Stopped her from coming. Intervened faster. But the outcome doesn't change."
He exhaled. "Orgrim was right. Her blood's on my hands. Just like the others. The men who died under my command. The innocents caught in the crossfire. All of it."
He went silent, gaze distant. "And now I get to sit across from two parents and tell them that their daughter isn't coming home. That she followed me into Hell and paid the price."
"Cap…" Bastion began.
Langston gave a bitter laugh. "Leadership, kid. No one ever tells you the cost until you're too deep in it to claw your way out. Wilhelm warned me. Frank stayed out of it altogether. Guess he was the smart one after all."
His knees buckled suddenly as he winced, one arm curling around his side. Bastion lunged forward, catching him by the shoulder.
"Easy. Come on, let's get you patched up before you keel over."
"I'm fine," Langston muttered.
"No, you're not," Bastion said, firm. "Save the self-loathing for later. Right now, we're getting you stitched up. Then," he added with a crooked smirk, "we hit the pub and drink till none of this makes sense anymore."
Langston turned his head slightly, and for a fleeting second, Bastion swore he saw the faintest smile—tired, but real.
"I could use a drink," Langston said. "Maybe even two."
****
Salazar slid his wand back into his robes, emerald eyes scanning the chaos left behind. Rain continued to fall in curtains, soaking through his hair as he swept it back with a slick hand. But there was no smirk on his face this time. No glint of mischief.
The fight replayed in his mind like a broken reel—images flashing one after another, seared into memory. Orgrim Darqtide. That name echoed louder than the screams had. His spells had landed—cleanly, powerfully—but the orc hadn't flinched. Not truly. The magic had drawn blood, but it hadn't stopped him.
Salazar looked down at the bodies. Twisted remains of Tower guards lay crushed in the slick black asphalt, limbs scattered, entrails washing into the gutter with the rain. And in the middle of it all, a cold, ugly truth settled in his chest: Orgrim had held back. If the orc had meant to kill him—truly meant to—he wouldn't be standing here now.
The sharp sound of Hartshorne's muttering yanked him from his thoughts. The sheriff stood a short distance away, grumbling curses under his breath as he wiped blood from his split lip. Salazar didn't need to know every detail to recognize the rot in a man. He'd seen enough backroom deals and silver-tongued politicians in his father's court to know Hartshorne's type. Grease in a suit. Lies wrapped in arrogance.
"You," Hartshorne said, approaching with a stiff gait and a bruised ego. "What you did was foolish. Reckless. Downright idiotic." He paused, then added—grudgingly— "But… I owe you thanks."
Salazar gave a cool smile, hands sliding into his coat pockets. "Think nothing of it, Sheriff. One must rise to the occasion when lives are at stake. Besides, I couldn't possibly let a man of your reputation meet such an undignified end."
Hartshorne's lips curled, half amusement, half calculation. "Slytherin, was it?"
"Honored," Salazar replied with a small bow. "Though if you'll excuse me, I'm well past curfew and could use a warm bed."
Hartshorne raised a hand to one of his guards, whispering something low. The man nodded and moved to a nearby vehicle. "Allow me to offer you a lift back to Excalibur," the sheriff said. "Least I can do."
Salazar raised an eyebrow. "How generous," he said. "Though it looks like you'll have your hands full this evening."
"Nonsense," Hartshorne stepped closer. "Tell me, have you heard of the Stelios Club? Commercial District. Golden statue. Quite the establishment."
"I've heard the name," Salazar said lightly. "A gentleman's club, yes? Very exclusive, very… selective."
"Indeed," Hartshorne nodded. "I host a little soiree there every week. Discretion, luxury, connections—the sort of things a well-bred young man like yourself might appreciate. Consider this a personal invitation."
Salazar tilted his head. "You do realize I'm not of age."
Hartshorne chuckled. "They let in who I tell them to let in. Saturday. Be there at eight. Dress well."
There was a beat of silence, then Salazar's grin returned—thin, polished, and unreadable.
"I suppose it's a date, then."
"Splendid," Hartshorne said, patting his shoulder before walking past. "And remember, Slytherin… doors open easier when you know who holds the keys."
Salazar turned his eyes back to the wreckage and the bodies, his smirk fading just slightly. "And sometimes," he muttered to himself, "keys fit more than one lock."
****
Orgrim sat in silence beside the firepit, the flickering flame casting a warm, amber glow across his weathered features. The fire crackled gently, embers rising like fireflies into the night, twisting upward in a graceful dance before fading into the black. The plains of Vol'dunin stretched endlessly beyond the reach of the firelight, wrapped beneath a canopy of stars that glittered across the sky in silence. Despite the chaos beyond these borders—the death, the war, the ghosts of what was lost—it was in moments like these that he found a kind of fleeting peace.
A shift in the air pulled his attention to the side. He turned, already knowing the presence before the man even spoke. Langston dropped down onto the flat stone next to him, rubbing his hands briskly as he leaned toward the flame.
"Well," Langston exhaled with a tired chuckle, "your kids are finally asleep. Gods help me, if I had to read Lumea and the Starbound Tree one more time, I think I'd start reciting it in my sleep. I've got half the damned thing memorized by now."
Orgrim chuckled, low and deep in his chest. "My apologies, dear friend. Unfortunately, not every orc is privileged enough to afford a proper education out here." He took a long sip from the wooden bowl in his hand, the kvass inside catching a glimmer from the firelight.
Langston breath fogged in the chill air. "I could teach you, if you'd like." There was a pause. "Actually… I think I might do more than that." He glanced upward at the stars. "When the war's over, I could leave the Tower behind. Come here. Set up a school. Something small. Build it from the ground up. Teach your little ones—and whoever else wants to learn."
Orgrim raised a brow. "You'd do that?" he asked, not with disbelief, but with something near wonder. "What about your career?"
Langston gave a wry laugh. "Between you and me, I've seen enough death to last ten lifetimes. I'm tired of teaching men how to kill. Thought maybe I could teach them how to think, instead." He smiled softly. "Your kids… the way they light up when they hear about far-off lands and ancient stories—it reminds me what we're fighting for."
Orgrim said nothing for a moment. Then, in one fluid motion, he picked up a second bowl, dipped both into the barrel beside him, and handed one to Langston. Langston accepted it gratefully, took a confident sip—then instantly choked, coughing so hard he nearly dropped it.
"By the Gods—what the hell is this?" he sputtered between coughs, pounding a fist against his chest. "Tastes like someone set fire to turpentine!"
Orgrim laughed, a booming sound that echoed into the darkness. "Grogg," he said, clearly amused. "A Vol'dunin specialty. Not exactly meant for human tongues." He smirked. "Takes time to get used to. Sip, don't gulp."
Langston gave him a mock glare as he wiped his mouth. "If Zhor ever learns how to bottle this stuff and use it in a siege, we might all be doomed. One whiff of this and my men would surrender on the spot."
Orgrim let out another laugh and raised his bowl in a silent toast. Langston mirrored the gesture. For a moment, neither of them spoke, content in the quiet. Just the fire between them, the distant hum of nocturnal life, and the stars watching overhead.
Langston gave a tired shrug, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames, their light flickering across his weary features. "They offered me the position of Captain," he muttered, the words sounding heavier than they should have.
"Captain?" Orgrim glanced at him, a slow smile beginning to rise. "That's incredible. You've spoken about that since the day we met—how much you wanted—"
"It's not," Langston cut him off gently, taking a sip from the bowl in his hands. He winced slightly the burn of the Grogg not any easier on the second taste. "It's not a promotion, Orgrim. Not an honor. It wasn't offered because of my leadership, or my accomplishments. It's because no one else wanted it."
He let out a bitter breath, watching it fog in the cool night air. "No one wants their name tied to a campaign destined to fail. No one wants to be remembered as the one who lost Vol'dunin. So, they passed it off to me. Gave me the title so they could wash their hands of it."
Orgrim was quiet for a moment, the fire casting soft shadows over his broad features. Then, with a slow nod, he said, "You know, I was much younger than you when I became Chief."
Langston turned toward him, surprised by the admission.
"And it wasn't because I earned it," Orgrim continued, staring into the fire. "I was the youngest of three. My older brothers—stronger, fiercer, born warriors—everyone assumed one of them would take the mantle." He paused, swirling the contents of his bowl.
"They loved battle. Lived for it. Every week, they'd return from a skirmish, covered in blood and praise. The tribe adored them. My father—he adored them. Me?" He gave a hollow chuckle. "I was the runt. Weak. Too soft. My father once told me he should've left me to the wolves. And for a long time, I believed him."
Langston's gaze softened as he listened, his earlier bitterness tempered by the orc's quiet confession.
"In my heart, I admired them. My brothers. My father. I wanted to be like them... until I didn't." Orgrim took a deep breath. "Because the thing about orcs who believe themselves untouchable is—they always find someone stronger. And when they did... I was the only one left."
Langston's voice was quiet. "That's how you became Chief?"
Orgrim nodded. "Not by strength. Not by challenge. By loss." He looked to the distance, where the faint amber glow of his tent burned like a beacon. "They expected me to fail. To doom the tribe. To bring shame on the name of the Warsong." His gaze hardened. "But I didn't. I led them. I protected them. I proved them all wrong."
He looked back to Langston, the firelight catching the edge of a smile—not of pride, but of something deeper.
"When I took Tia as my mate, when she gave me our children, I made a promise. That they would never know the hatred I grew up with. That their lives would be filled with love, with peace... with wonder."
He turned to face the rows of tents, the quiet breathing of his people muffled beneath canvas and fur.
"And so would the tribe."
Orgrim turned his gaze to Langston, his dark eyes warm in the firelight. "Things may feel heavy now," he said. "You carry this burden like it's a punishment, not a mark of trust. And I understand that." His tusks showed slightly as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "But I have faith in you."
He swirled his drink gently in the wooden bowl, the firelight catching the surface of the dark liquid. "You stood against the Blackrock orcs with a ferocity I've rarely seen, even among our own kind. They speak your name in whispers, you know—like a myth. A story to keep restless younglings in line. You've walked through fire and steel, and you never wavered. That's not something easily forgotten."
"More than your strength, I believe in your will to do what's right. To make the hard choices. To bring peace to a land that's known only blood and ash. I want my children—and their children—to grow up without fearing the next raid, without clutching a blade under their pillows. I want them to laugh in a world you helped shape."
He lifted his bowl. "And when this is over… if that dream of yours still burns in your heart—then come back. Open that school. Teach our children. Build a better world, brick by brick, page by page. You will always have a place among the Warsong. And no matter what path lies ahead—" Orgrim looked him in the eyes, firm and unwavering, "—I will always call you friend."
Langston's lips parted into a slow smile, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Then I swear to you, Chief of the Warsong, when I take the mantle of Captain, I'll do everything in my power to end this war once and for all. And if I survive it…" he raised his bowl, "you'll see me again. Not with a sword, but with books. With stories. And your tribe will know peace."
"To us," Orgrim said, raising his bowl.
Langston clinked his own against it. "To us."
They drank. Langston immediately coughed, wincing as he tried to recover. "Gods above, that still tastes like it was brewed in a forge."
Orgrim threw his head back with a laugh, the sound echoing through the quiet night. And in that moment—fragile, fleeting, and all the more sacred—they weren't a human soldier and an orcish chieftain.
They weren't enemies. Or emissaries. Or men of war.
They were simply two friends beneath a blanket of stars.
A lifetime ago.
****
High atop the rain-slicked mountains, within the crumbling remains of the old watchtower, the three waited in silence.
Gunnar was face-down on the wooden table, snoring into a small puddle of his own drool, his beard soaked and clinging to the sticky varnish. Seven empty bottles stood like sentinels beside him, their glass catching the dim, flickering light of the lone crystal lamp overhead. The reek of whiskey filled the room like fog, heavy and sour.
Isha sat by the round window, her elbows on the sill as she stared out at the city below. Rain tapped gently against the glass, casting trembling reflections across her face. Behind her, Asriel leaned against a cracked wooden pillar, arms crossed, eyes closed, lost in thought.
Then it came—a sudden swirl of blackened smoke and glowing embers materializing in the center of the room.
Both Asriel and Isha turned sharply as Orgrim emerged… and immediately collapsed, face-first onto the floor with a heavy thud that jolted Gunnar upright.
"Orgrim!" Isha shouted, bolting from her seat and falling to her knees beside the orc's motionless form.
He groaned, barely conscious, his body limp as she rolled him onto his back. His breathing was ragged. The wounds across his chest and side were deep, seeping blackened blood that pulsed slowly with every heartbeat. Some had begun to cauterize with dim trails of ember—but others bled freely.
Asriel was by his side in an instant, his amber eyes sharp and alert.
"Why isn't he healing?" Isha asked. "He's supposed to heal!"
Gunnar stumbled forward, blinking the sleep from his eyes. "By the forge…" he muttered, squinting' down at Orgrim. "He looks like a bloody sack o' meat that's been dragged backwards through a rose bush, then run over for good measure."
Asriel didn't answer at first. His expression darkened. "The sword's power is finite," he said at last. "And when I split it between the four of us… I cut more than just time."
"You mean—" Isha started.
"I mean we're burning out," Asriel said. "All of us. Faster than we expected."
Orgrim coughed, blood streaking from the corner of his mouth. "I failed," he rasped. "Langston… he lives."
"Rest," Asriel said, taking a knee and placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Langston survives… for now. But his days are still numbered."
Gunnar crossed his arms, brow furrowed beneath his thick, tousled hair. "So, whit now?" he asked. "We just keep sittin' on our arses, or are we finally takin' the fight tae their doorstep?"
Asriel looked to him, a flicker of something grim in his eyes.
"Now," he said, "we set the next phase in motion."
His gaze shifted between Isha and Orgrim; the weight of urgency etched into every line of his face. "We cannot afford patience anymore. The game of careful moves is over—time's no longer our ally. We strike down what remains, and then we go straight for the throat. When we're finished, the Tower will crumble—disgraced, disowned. Burgess will answer for every sin, and the world will know the truth."
He rose to his feet and stepped away from Orgrim, his eyes locking onto the dwarf with steel-like resolve. "And you, Gunnar… you'll get what you've waited for."
A crooked grin spread across Gunnar's face, wicked and hungry. He cracked his knuckles, fire gleaming in his eyes.
"Bout damn time," he muttered. "Wait for me, Abigail. Ye'll finally be avenged."