Two days had passed since the chaos outside the diner, and though Serfence had caught wind of scattered whispers and idle gossip, he'd paid them little mind. The affairs of the Clock Tower—and the messes they routinely invited upon themselves—rarely concerned him. His only grievance, truth be told, was that the destruction of his favorite diner had become a personal inconvenience. Their apple pie was, after all, a small joy he'd come to rely on.
Now, he sat nestled in the corner of a modest café, the low hum of chatter and clinking cutlery forming a distant backdrop to his solitude. Steam curled gently from the rim of his coffee, black and untouched. His eyes remained fixed on a small, leather-bound book—worn from use but well cared for—resting between his gloved hands. One leg crossed over the other, posture straight, he read with quiet intent.
Mystery novels were a particular indulgence. Tales of hidden motives, clever schemes, and sharpened minds peeling back the layers of deception. He enjoyed the elegance of it—the slow unraveling of truth, the intellectual dance. It wasn't too dissimilar from his former life, though the Tower had favored less subtle methods. His work as Executioner had been more seek and destroy than sleuth and deduce, but he'd always possessed the eye for details.
He could hear them now—soft murmurs, hushed voices from the nearby tables. Women, mostly. Their giggles, the tone of their voices just a little higher, a little breathier when speaking of him. Admiring his posture. His jawline. Wondering what lay behind those unreadable eyes.
Serfence sighed, his gaze never lifting from the page.
How tiresome. As if he had time—or interest—for something so trivial.
He heard the scrape of the chair before he saw who it was, the sound cutting through the low murmur of the café. Still, Serfence didn't lift his gaze. He turned the page of his book slowly, deliberately, as if the presence across the table was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
"I was under the impression I'd made myself perfectly clear," he said, eyes still fixed on the page. "I don't entertain company without invitation."
At last, he looked up—dark eyes narrowing with mild disdain. "Least of all yours, Director."
Lamar Burgess sat across from him, fingers steepled, the image of composure. But Serfence saw the subtle twitch at his temple. Irritation, expertly masked but unmistakable.
"Perhaps I wouldn't have to impose," Lamar said coolly, "if you hadn't ignored my summons. Twice."
Serfence nodded slowly. "And which part of my silence gave you the impression I'd accepted?"
Lamar let out a low chuckle—hollow, without mirth. "I see your charming disposition hasn't changed. Retirement suits you."
He turned to the counter. "Cappuccino. Double shot." The barista gave a curt nod.
With a sigh, Serfence closed his book, setting it beside his untouched coffee. He leaned forward, the candlelight catching faintly in his eyes. "Very well. Since you've seen fit to disrupt the one quiet hour of my day, Director… I'll hear whatever it is you're desperate enough to crawl out here for."
He folded his hands, resting them lightly on the table. "But do get to the point."
Lamar drew a slow breath, composing himself before he spoke. "I imagine I don't need to spell out the state of things. The Clock Tower is faltering. The peace we've brokered, the order we've spent decades enforcing—it's all unraveling." His gaze hardened. "So, I'll spare the ceremony. I need your help, Edward. I need him. The man they once called The Black."
Serfence didn't blink. "So… you need an Executioner."
His words held no surprise, only a tired inevitability. He leaned back slightly, folding his hands. "And what of the others? Don't tell me I'm the only one left with the Tower's brand burned into my spine."
"They're scattered," Lamar replied. "On assignments across the continents—missions I can't interrupt. I don't have the time, nor the reach, to call them back. Not before this thing consumes us all."
The barista arrived, placing a wide porcelain cup in front of Lamar. A delicate rosette sat in the foam, but the Director barely glanced at it.
"We've lost too many already," he continued. "Guardians. Aurors. Adjudicators. Good men and women—some of the finest. Gone. What we're facing now…" He paused. "We've never seen anything like it. If I had another option, I wouldn't be here."
Serfence was silent. He looked down for a moment, fingertips brushing together, a subtle rhythm playing at the edge of memory.
Then—he chuckled. A low, bitter sound that made Lamar shift.
The professor lifted his gaze, and though his smile was sharp, it didn't reach his eyes.
"Tell me, Director… do you remember what I asked of you? Not so long ago?"
Lamar frowned. "Edward—"
"No, no," Serfence cut in, lifting a gloved finger. "Let's not pretend we've forgotten. I came to you, months ago, with one request. One exception. For my student. For a girl born into chains."
"And do you remember what you said to me, Lamar? You looked me in the eye and said no. Not even a second thought."
Lamar shifted uncomfortably. "That's not relevant—"
"It is to me," Serfence said sharply. "You denied me when I asked for mercy. And now you have the gall to come crawling for mine."
His words hung in the air like the weight of a drawn blade. "But that's the beauty of retirement, Lamar. It means I no longer take orders. And I certainly don't clean up your messes."
He rose, gathering his book. "So, here's my answer—Director."
A beat.
"No."
"Edward, don't do this." Lamar shoulders slackened beneath the weight of desperation. "You're better than this kind of petty vindictiveness. This isn't just about me—and you know it. This is about the Tower. About the lives of the men and women out there risking everything while we sit here. You're the only one who can ensure they make it home."
Serfence didn't blink. "Funny," he said, "how their lives only became a concern the moment the Council turned its gaze on you."
That struck true—Lamar's jaw tightened, a twitch flickering in his temple.
"Yes," Serfence went on, "I've heard the whispers. About the Regent. About King Uther's involvement. And yet…" He raised a single gloved finger. "This isn't about them. This is about me. About the line I drew in the sand. I gave everything to the Tower. Years of service. Countless lives taken at your command. And all I ever asked—once—was for you to make an exception."
Lamar raised his hands. "Alright. Fine. You've made your point." He drew a breath. "Do this, and I'll grant it. Your student, the paperwork—I'll handle it myself. Personally."
But Serfence's eyes had gone dark. "Too late, Lamar. Much too late."
He reached into his pocket of his robes, then dropped a few coins onto the table.
"For ten years, I was your scourge. Your sword. Your shadow. And the one time I needed something from you—truly needed—you turned your back on me."
"Now you can live with that. Just as Gryffindor has." Serfence adjusted his coat with practiced ease, then cast Lamar a final glance. A thin, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Oh, and do give my regards to Valerian… if he lets you live long enough."
Lamar's breath hitched, his eyes widening, but Serfence was already turning away, his black robes sweeping behind him as he strode for the door.
"Edward."
The former Executioner didn't stop.
"Edward!"
Serfence vanished through the café doors, leaving Lamar seething at the table. The Director's fist slammed against the wood, rattling the cup and spilling the coffee across the saucer.
"Blasted whoreson," Lamar muttered, his fist clenching as the café fell into stunned silence.
Then, his breath caught. His eyes widened, as if struck by lightning.
"Wait…" His mind raced to catch up. "D-did he just say Gryffindor?"
****
Godric walked the near-empty halls, hands stuffed into his pockets, his sword resting on his back. It was the weekend—Excalibur Academy had thinned to a hush. Most students were out wandering the streets of Caerleon or off chasing whatever adventure Avalon had to offer. Salazar had vanished earlier, claiming some evening appointment with that familiar glint of mischief in his eye. Rowena had holed up in her room, no doubt buried beneath books, aiming to stay five steps ahead for end-of-term exams. Helga and Jeanne were out together, hunting down a restaurant they'd read about the day before.
Godric, though—he had nowhere to be.
Dressed in a plain black shirt and faded black jeans, he moved without purpose, like a shadow skimming the edges of the world. His thoughts had dulled to a quiet static: a low, unfeeling hum of numbness that settled behind his chest like fog. Now and then, memories bubbled up—louder thoughts, sharper feelings. They never stayed long. Just enough to remind him he was still bleeding inside. It was a fight, every day, just to hold it together long enough to pass for normal.
His crimson eyes drifted across the few students he passed. Some faltered mid-step when they saw him. A few turned away. Others watched in silence, their conversations shrinking into whispers as he walked by. He didn't need to hear them. He already knew what they said. What they thought.
He didn't blame them. He didn't care, either.
He envied them, in a way. Their ignorance. Their unbroken peace. The way their hearts hadn't been hollowed out and filled with something darker. Something crueler.
He shook his head and kept walking.
His path took him near the entrance to the slave quarters, a part of the castle he typically avoided. But here he was, steps taking him there without thought, as if drawn by some bitter, invisible thread. His pace slowed. The stone walls here were quieter, heavier somehow. He didn't have to look to remember—he could feel her here. Raine. The way she moved through this space like she didn't belong, and yet somehow, made it hers. He could still hear her voice—soft, a little sharp, always bold—bouncing off these same stone walls.
Godric exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before lowering his head. And then he walked on, not because he wanted to—but because there was nowhere else to go.
It was then he stopped, something catching at the edge of his awareness. His brow furrowed as he turned toward the door beside him—slightly ajar, a sliver of dim light spilling into the hall. From within, a strange sound echoed: the unmistakable, guttural rhythm of something eating. Not just eating—devouring. As if whatever was inside hadn't seen food in days, weeks, or longer. It was messy, primal. Almost feral.
Godric tilted his head, listening more closely. The noise was sharp, wet, and rapid—teeth tearing into something solid, jaws working with a near-panicked urgency.
He remembered what Raine had once told him. That room was technically a storage area, meant for keeping dry goods. There was also a narrow path in the back that connected to one of the secondary kitchens—the one where they collected leftovers after meals. Nothing remarkable.
At least, it wasn't supposed to be.
Godric placed a hand on the door and pushed it open.
The cool air greeted him first—not cold, but crisp, like a cellar. The walls glowed softly with amber crystal sconces, casting long shadows that clung to the floor and corners. Sacks of potatoes, onions, and garlic were stacked in the corners. Wooden shelves lined the walls, heavy with jars of pickled vegetables—carrots, cucumbers, radishes—all glistening behind thick glass. Metal cans with faded labels were crammed together, some small, others industrial-sized.
Then he saw it.
A torn sack of carrots lay across the stone floor, its contents scattered in a mess of orange shards and snapped stems. Some had been half-eaten, others gnawed through and discarded. The trail of broken carrots led toward another door at the back—also ajar, swinging gently from an unseen draft.
Godric's fingers curled instinctively around the hilt of his sword as he advanced. His footsteps were measured, his approach quiet, every movement deliberate. He pressed his palm gently to the door, easing it open just enough to slip inside without a sound.
The room beyond was a secondary pantry, lit by dim crystal sconces fixed to the walls. It smelled of cold food and stale spices. Plates of half-eaten roasts and cold salads sat beside trays of sliced bread and desserts—piled haphazardly on metal racks and wooden counters. This was where leftovers went before being stored or discarded. The scent wasn't fresh, but it still carried a lingering richness of the Academy's earlier lunch.
Godric's eyes scanned the cluttered room—until they caught movement in the far corner.
There, hunched low in the shadows, a figure tore ravenously into a large dish of bread pudding. The sound of eating was raw—sloppy, unrestrained, animalistic. He took a cautious step forward, narrowing his eyes—and then blinked in recognition.
"...Shana?"
The therian girl froze. Her long rabbit ears shot bolt upright. She spun around, her eyes wide with horror, her cheeks smeared with whipped cream and berry sauce. Frosting clung to the corners of her mouth, her hands covered in sticky crumbs. Still holding a hunk of pudding, she stared at him in mute panic for a second—then dropped it.
And burst into tears.
"I-I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Shana sobbed, clutching her stained hands to her chest. "I didn't mean to—I was just so hungry, and I—I couldn't stop. Please don't tell Mister Buffer! Please—!"
"Shana—Shana, it's okay," Godric said quickly, alarmed, his hand leaving his sword as he crossed the room. "Hey, it's fine. You're not in trouble."
She tried to hide her face, wiping at her cheeks with trembling fingers.
"I just—I couldn't help it," she stammered through tears. "Everything's been hurting lately. My stomach. My chest. It's like no matter what I eat, it's not enough…"
"I believe you," Godric said softly, resting his hands gently on her arms to calm her shaking. "You just startled me, that's all. The way you were eating—I thought there was some kind of wild creature in here." He offered a small, reassuring smile. "Turns out I was half-right."
That earned a tiny, teary laugh through her sniffles.
"There we go," Godric said. "Now, why don't we get you cleaned up and see if we can find you something fresh? You don't have to hide."
Shana sniffled once more and wiped the last of her tears away with the back of her sleeve. Her hands were still sticky, her face streaked with sugar and sorrow.
"You know," she said quietly, "I never got the chance to thank you."
Godric tilted his head, one brow raised. "Thank me?"
"For what you did," she nodded, her ears drooping slightly. "To Cardin. And the Midnighters." Her gaze flicked to the floor. "The others… the other slaves told me everything."
Godric said nothing, his expression unreadable.
"I'm not sure they deserved what happened to them," she continued, almost hesitant. "Not completely. Not even after everything they did to me. What he did." Her fingers curled slightly. "But when you're a slave, justice doesn't come in clean packages. You take it however it arrives, no matter how ugly, no matter how violent."
She looked up at him, eyes still wet but clear. "So… thank you."
For a moment, Godric didn't move. Then, finally, he gave a quiet nod. A small, worn smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—tired, but genuine.
"You're welcome," he said.
"And by the way, I—"
Shana's words faltered midsentence, softening to a whisper before cutting out entirely, and in the blink of an eye, her eyelids fluttered. The light behind them dimmed. Her body sagged forward without warning.
"Shana?" Godric caught her just before she collapsed, his arms wrapping around her limp frame. "Shana!" he called, alarmed, easing her down gently onto the floor.
Her head lolled slightly against his shoulder. Her limbs hung loose, breath shallow. Unresponsive.
"Shana, hey—hey, stay with me," he said, panic rising in his chest as he cradled her. "What's wrong? Come on, talk to me. Shana!"
But she didn't answer. Her body remained still in his arms, as if whatever strength she had left had simply slipped away.
****
The sterile scent of disinfectant, herbs, and medical tinctures was no stranger to Godric. He had become intimately familiar with the aroma after frequent visits to the Hospital Wing over the past several weeks—most of which had followed the aftermath of his violent clashes in the arena. Fortunately, the wing was quieter now. Many of the beds that had once been filled with battered Clan members were empty. Some had recovered. Others had been transferred to larger, better-equipped facilities—those whose injuries were far too severe to treat here.
Godric knew he was part of the reason for that. And so did Doctor Adani.
Her once-patient demeanor toward him had shifted into something colder, sharper. Whatever sympathy she might've once had for him had eroded completely. Every visit was met with the same silent judgment, the same tight-lipped nods and clipped instructions. She hadn't needed to say a word—Godric could feel it in the way her eyes burned through him: her fury at the time, resources, and effort now wasted on treating those left broken in his wake.
But this time, the visit wasn't about him.
Inside one of the rooms, Godric stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Shana lay in the bed, pale but conscious. An IV drip fed nutrients into her arm. She looked tired. Fragile. Sophia sat at her bedside, her hand gently wrapped around Shana's own, brushing her thumb across her knuckles in quiet comfort.
Doctor Adani had diagnosed her with acute malnourishment and dehydration. But Godric had seen it—the way the doctor's eyes lingered on Shana after the initial exam, the flicker of concern behind her neutral expression. A glance too calculating to be dismissed. As though she had thoughts she didn't want to voice. Suspicions. Darker possibilities she wasn't yet ready to confirm.
And that silence weighed heavier than any words.
The door eased open with a quiet creak, and Doctor Adani stepped inside, her presence calm but weighty. She wore the traditional robes of her homeland—earth-toned and intricately embroidered, a reminder of her heritage and the discipline it demanded. In one hand she held a clipboard, its edges worn, the pages clipped tight. Her gaze, as ever, was cold—clinical—but there was something different this time. A flicker of sorrow buried deep behind the frost.
She approached the bedside, ignoring Godric entirely as she stopped near Shana, who was now sitting upright, her back pressed against the headboard. Sophia leaned forward in her chair, her hand still clasping Shana's.
"Doctor Adani," Sophia began. "How is she? Is she going to be alright?"
Adani took a slow breath, as though bracing herself for the words she was about to speak. "As I mentioned earlier—yes, she's suffering from dehydration and malnourishment, but physically, she's stable. There's no lasting damage to her body."
She paused.
But it wasn't the pause of someone finished speaking—it was the pause of someone choosing their next words very carefully. She adjusted her glasses, the slight tremor in her hand betraying her resolve.
"She is fine," she said at last. "She… and the baby."
The silence that followed struck like a thunderclap. No one spoke. No one breathed. The quiet was thick—heavy enough to press into the walls.
"B-baby?" Sophia echoed, barely a whisper. Her wide eyes turned to Shana, whose face had drained of all color. "You mean she's…" She couldn't even finish the sentence.
Adani nodded once. "Pregnant. Roughly seven to eight weeks along, from what I can tell." Her words faltered. "Which… lines up with when she was…"
Shana didn't move for a moment. Then her hand drifted slowly to her stomach. The reality hit her like a bolt of lightning, and in an instant her expression cracked. Horror bloomed across her face as tears welled in her eyes.
"No…" she whispered. "No, no, no… I—I can't—" Her words dissolved into sobs as her arms wrapped around herself, her shoulders trembling.
Sophia surged forward, embracing her tightly. "It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay, I'm here. You're safe."
Doctor Adani said nothing. She simply bowed her head, her fingers tightening slightly around the clipboard. She had delivered many diagnoses in her time—some grim, some fatal—but few ever weighed like this one.
Godric stood by the wall, unmoving. His breath caught in his throat. His thoughts scattered, words failing him entirely. All he could do was stare, hollow-eyed, as the gravity of what had been spoken sank like stone into his chest. He couldn't feel his hands. Only the cold.
"Get it out…" Shana's broke the silence.
Sophia blinked. "Shana… what?"
"Get it out of me," she said louder this time, trembling. Her wide, tear-glossed eyes turned to Doctor Adani. Her voice cracked, twisted with anguish. "Get it out of me!"
"I can't—I won't!" She screamed, the words shredding through her sobs. "I won't bear Cardin's child—I won't bring his monster into this world!" Her words broke apart as sobs overtook her, each breath more ragged than the last. "Not after what he did… not after everything he took from me…"
Doctor Adani didn't move. Her expression remained composed, but her gaze dropped.
"I'm afraid I can't," she said quietly.
"What?" Godric stepped forward, his eyes flaring with disbelief. "She said she doesn't want it—why won't you do what she asks?"
Doctor Adani's head snapped up. "Because of the Ius Servitium, Mister Gryffindor. The Slave Laws."
Godric stiffened.
"Shana is a slave," the doctor continued. "And according to the statutes upheld by the Slaver's Guild, any child born of a slave is automatically their property. That child belongs to the Guild even before it draws breath."
Godric's fists clenched as Rowena's words from weeks ago came flooding back—every clause, every cruel line of doctrine.
Doctor Adani's gaze turned to Sophia now, colder than ever. "And as such, any attempt to terminate the pregnancy—voluntary or otherwise—is considered destruction of Guild property. Punishable by law. You know this, Sophia. Don't pretend you don't."
Sophia's eyes welled up, but she said nothing. She held Shana tighter as the girl sobbed against her, her rabbit ears drooped low. The therian clung to her like a lifeline, her thin frame wracked by grief. Sophia's own tears fell quietly as she nodded, her words trapped behind the lump in her throat.
Doctor Adani turned back to Godric. "And you. You may think yourself brave," she said. "Strong. Fearsome. But even the Lion of Ignis cannot burn down what the law protects. There are monsters in this world, Mister Gryffindor… and they don't wear armor or carry swords. They sign contracts."
She turned without another word, her robes whispering against the floor as she walked to the door.
"I must notify Mister Buffer," she added. "And the Guild."
The door clicked shut behind her.
And the room was left in silence, save for Shana's broken sobs.
Godric's chest heaved; his breath ragged with a fury barely contained. His hand trembled at his side before he let out a guttural cry and slammed his fist into the wall behind him. The stone cracked beneath the force, a deep imprint left in its wake, dust crumbling to the floor.
"Blasted Cardin!" he roared. "Even in death, he clings to this world like a damn curse!"
His words echoed through the sterile chamber, sharp and raw. Sophia flinched but didn't look away. She held Shana tighter, her hand gently brushing through the girl's turquoise hair as the sobs continued.
"Godric, please…" Sophia whispered. "It's okay, my darling," she murmured into Shana's ear. "We'll get through this. I promise you. You won't go through this alone—I'm here. I always will be."
Godric stood frozen, eyes closed, jaw clenched. Then, after a long breath, he turned his gaze to the two of them. The sight pierced him—Sophia's hand on Shana's cheek, the trembling girl clutching her like a child fearing the dark.
"I should go," he said, the words heavy on his tongue.
He turned, heading toward the door with heavy steps. His hand paused on the handle for a moment, but he didn't look back.
"Godric—" Sophia called out.
But the door had already closed behind him.