Frank let out a heavy sigh as he turned away. "I'll go secure the perimeter, clear a path so they can get these yahoos to the hospital." He shot a glance over his shoulder at Bastion. "And for the love of all things holy, try not to start another riot while I'm gone."
Bastion smirked but didn't respond, his attention shifting back to the three girls and Donaldson, still on the ground. "And what about them?" he asked, nodding toward the slaves and their protector.
Frank barely broke stride. "You heard the peck, the Clock Tower ain't got jurisdiction over slaves," he said, his steel-gray eyes flicking toward the unconscious Authority enforcers littering the street. "And thanks to you, the ones who do are out cold. So as far as I'm concerned…" He stopped just long enough to give Bastion a knowing look. "This is your mess. You clean it up."
Bastion's eyebrows shot up. He hadn't expected that. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Frank was already walking away, pushing through the crowd, barking orders as he worked on dispersing the onlookers.
A slow grin curled at the corner of Bastion's lips.
He turned back to Donaldson, stepping toward him before drawing his short sword. He flicked it down toward the cuffs around the man's wrists. "Alohomora."
The metal restraints unlatched instantly, clinking to the ground. Donaldson rubbed his sore wrists before scrambling to his feet, barely sparing Bastion a glance before rushing toward Denora.
"You're welcome, by the way," Bastion muttered with a chuckle, sheathing his sword.
Donaldson knelt beside the elven girl, his hands cupping her face as he searched her for injuries. "Denora… Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"
She leaned into his touch, eyes closing for a moment before she shook her head. "No, my love," she whispered. "I'm fine." Her gaze shifted past him, settling on Bastion.
A soft smile touched her lips.
"Thank you," she said. "With all my heart… thank you."
The therianthrope girl's cat ears flattened against her head, her tail flicking anxiously behind her. "But… they know we're here now," she whispered. "They'll lock the city down, and it's only a matter of time before they send someone else."
"And if they catch us…" The human girl's lip quivered, her hands curling into the fabric of her tattered dress. "They'll send us to Tartarus." Her breath hitched, panic bleeding into her tone. "Then they'll send us right back to our masters." Her arms wrapped around herself as her body shook. "No, I won't go back there. I won't go back to the mills. I won't—" Her voice broke as a choked sob escaped her throat.
Denora pulled them both into her arms, holding them close as she whispered soothing words into their ears, but Jeanne could see the fear behind her calm facade.
Jeanne turned her gaze to Bastion, stepping closer to him. His expression had darkened, his eyes fixed on the three girls with something between anger and sorrow.
"What's… Tartarus?" Jeanne asked, hesitant, as if she already knew she wouldn't like the answer.
Bastion exhaled sharply. "It's a prison," he said at last. "For slaves." His jaw tightened. "It's where the Guild sends their more problematic ones. They're, for lack of a better word, reeducated and returned to their masters."
He folded his arms over his chest. "The system operates on three strikes. Every time a slave tries to run and gets caught; they're branded."
He gestured toward the three faint, yet undeniable lines etched just above the slave crests on the girls' lower torsos. "Three strikes, and you earn yourself a one-way trip to the slammer."
Jeanne swallowed hard. "What do you mean… reeducated?" she asked.
Bastion's lips pressed into a thin line. "Every inhumane thing you can think of," he said. "Beatings. Lashes." He hesitated, a flicker of something raw crossing his features before he forced himself to continue. "And for the girls…" He met her eyes. "I don't need to say it, do I?"
Jeanne's breath caught in her throat. Her hand flew to her mouth as bile burned the back of her throat.
No wonder they were terrified.
No wonder they had fought so hard to escape.
And no wonder Bastion looked like he was ready to burn the whole city down to keep them from being taken back.
Donaldson clenched his fists, his jaw tight with frustration. "This is all my doing," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I should have been more careful. I should have—"
Denora reached out, her fingers grazing his cheek, her touch gentle despite the weight of their circumstances. "Hush, my love," she whispered. "It's not your fault. These things happen. We'll find a way past this. I know we will."
He leaned into her palm, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I won't let them take you away from me again," he rasped.
Bastion then stepped forward. Lowering himself onto one knee, he met their eyes with an unwavering stare. "I wish I could tell you that everything will be fine," he said. "But they're right. The Authority will be watching every road in and out of this city. I don't know who your masters are, but they must have serious pull in the Union to get this kind of response."
The three girls stared at him, their eyes wide, their faces stricken with dread. The younger two looked ready to burst into tears. Bastion's gaze drifted over the bruises marring their arms and legs, the torn and tattered dresses, the dark rope marks circling their wrists. His stomach tightened as he noticed the faint but unmistakable lash marks streaking their backs, barely hidden beneath the ragged fabric.
He turned his attention back to Donaldson. "That peck—he mentioned you were working with insurgents." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Libertas?"
Donaldson nodded grimly.
Bastion sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hate to break it to you, but things are too hot right now, even for them. With the city on high alert, they won't be able to help you, not without risking their entire network."
He saw the hope drain from their faces, their expressions sinking further into despair. The weight in his chest pressed harder.
"But," Bastion continued, reaching into his coat, "not all hope is lost."
He pulled out a small black card and handed it to Donaldson. "Caerleon is a sanctuary city," he said. "There are safehouses for runaway slaves. There's one a few blocks from here, run by a friend of mine. Tell him I sent you. The address is on the card."
Donaldson turned the card over in his hands, eyes darting between it and Bastion.
"Once you're safely inside, call the number on the back," Bastion went on. "She's a barrister—one of the best. Specializes in Slave Laws. She'll file an injunction against The Authority, and as long as you stay within the safehouse, they can't touch you."
"It's not much, but it'll buy you some time." Bastion offered a small, lopsided grin, though the weight of the moment dimmed any real amusement. He then tapped a finger on the handwritten numbers scrawled beneath the lawyer's contact information.
"And if those bastards try storming the place anyway?" His grin sharpened. "That's my number. I'm always happy to send a few Authority pigs squealing right back to the sties they belong in."
Denora moved forward before he could react, wrapping her arms around his neck, her grip tight, desperate. The younger girls followed, clutching at his torso, their hands gripping onto his coat like he was the only solid thing left in their world.
"Thank you," Denora whispered against his shoulder. "I'm forever in your debt."
Bastion let out a low chuckle, patting their backs as they pulled away. "Don't thank me just yet." His gaze flicked to Donaldson, his usual levity tempered by something firmer, more resolute. "Get them out of here. Head straight to the safehouse, no detours, no stops. Keep your head low, and if you run into trouble, use that number."
Donaldson pushed himself to his feet, his hands still trembling slightly, though whether from adrenaline or relief, Bastion wasn't sure. He met Bastion's gaze and nodded once, solemn. "I'll protect them with my life. You have my word."
"That's all I need to hear," Bastion said, stepping back as Donaldson turned to the girls.
They exchanged one last fleeting glance before setting off down the sidewalk, their steps hurried but determined. Bastion watched until they rounded the corner and disappeared into the streets beyond.
"Godspeed," he murmured. "Well. That was a hell of a way to spend an afternoon."
****
The crowd had begun to disperse as vehicles with flashing lights and wailing sirens pulled up to the scene. Personnel in crisp white uniforms moved with practiced efficiency, lifting the unconscious enforcers onto gleaming metallic stretchers and wheeling them toward the waiting ambulances. Jeanne found herself watching, her gaze settling on Goras as he was loaded in, blood soaking into the pristine sheets beneath him.
As much as she despised what he had done, what he stood for, she hadn't wanted this—to see him broken, barely clinging to consciousness. But the thought barely took root before it was smothered by cold reality. This was the direct result of his own actions, the weight of his cruelty snapping back upon him like a whip. Jeanne had no sympathy for those who wielded the law like a weapon to oppress others. Even so, the sight of him, bloodied and battered, left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Shaking off the thought, she turned her attention back to Bastion, who was dusting himself off.
"Um…" Jeanne hesitated before stepping forward, holding out the holster for his large sword. "I believe this belongs to you."
Bastion turned, blinking in mild surprise before breaking into a sheepish grin. "Oh, right. Almost forgot about that." He took it from her with an easy, practiced motion, securing it back into place with a click. "Thanks. By the way, the name's Sebastian Reinhardt. Bastion for short."
Jeanne clasped her hands together. "Jeanne," she offered after a pause. "Jeanne D'Arc."
Bastion tilted his head, his brows lifting slightly. "D'Arc?" He gave her an appraising look, his smirk fading into something closer to curiosity. "As in House D'Arc?"
Jeanne stiffened. There it was again. The name spoken with a weight she didn't understand. A family she had never known, never even heard of until now.
"I… I don't know, actually," she admitted, glancing away. "My parents never spoke of any relatives. Not in my world… or in this one."
Bastion hummed, crossing his arms as he studied her. "A vagabond, huh?" He moved over to where his massive sword was still embedded in the ground, gripping the hilt and wrenching it free with a practiced ease before sliding it back into its holster. "House D'Arc is one of the Twelve Imperial Houses of Avalon. You could say they're just a step below royalty."
"R-royalty?" Jeanne's breath caught in her throat.
Bastion nodded. His gaze thoughtful. "Not entirely surprising that you haven't heard of them. Their lands and estate are tucked away in the far east of Camelot," he explained. "House D'Arc has been around for centuries—one of the oldest noble houses still standing. But they keep an extremely low profile. Most people in Avalon tend to forget they even exist."
He rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing slightly. "Still… it's odd that you'd carry their name without any known ties. Maybe it's just a coincidence."
Jeanne wasn't sure why, but something deep in her gut told her it wasn't.
Her eyes lingered on Bastion as he stood before her, his frame lean and athletic but not overly built—surprising, given the way he had wielded that massive sword with such ease. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, exhaling as he rested his hands on his hips, surveying the aftermath around them. There was something strangely familiar about him, an almost nagging resemblance she didn't dare acknowledge—not now.
"Anyway," Bastion said, breaking the silence, "I have to say, you've got more spunk than most." His eyes flicked over her uniform, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Guess it's true what they say about those who wear the Ignis Flames."
Jeanne felt heat rise to her cheeks and quickly looked away. "Please, it was nothing," she murmured. "Honestly, I might even call it foolish. I just saw people in trouble and…" She hesitated before shaking her head. "I couldn't just stand by and do nothing."
Bastion's smirk softened into something more genuine. "That makes it even more impressive," he said. "My grandpa used to say, a true hero acts without hesitation, even in the face of danger." His gaze lingered on her, thoughtful. "You may not see yourself that way, but to those girls? In that moment, you were every bit the hero they needed."
The sound of slow, deliberate clapping directed both Bastion and Jeanne's attention toward Salazar, Rowena, and Helga as they approached.
"Bravo," Salazar drawled, his smirk sharp and assessing. "Quite the spectacle, officer. I must say, you have me very intrigued."
"Totally!" Helga grinned, eyes alight with excitement. "I've never seen anyone cast magic with a sword before! That was so cool!"
Bastion gave a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh… thanks? I think?"
"Oh, Bastion, these are my friends," Jeanne introduced, gesturing to the trio. "Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin." She turned to them. "This is Bastion Reinhardt."
At the mention of Rowena's surname, Bastion's brows lifted slightly. "Ravenclaw? As in the Ravenclaws?" He let out a low whistle. "Ain't a soul in the Tower who doesn't know your family."
"Likewise," Rowena replied, offering a polite smile. "The name Reinhardt carries quite the legacy within AEGIS. My grandfather speaks highly of Wilhelm Reinhardt. He's always said there were few men as honorable as he."
Bastion chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Heh, yeah, Grandpa had a way of leaving an impression. You should hear the stories he used to tell. Half of them sound like something straight out of a legend." His grin widened before he gave a short nod. "Anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you all."
Rowena tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "If I may ask, are you an alumnus of Wallace Academy?"
At the mention of the school, Helga and Salazar exchanged curious glances, while Bastion beamed.
"Well, knock me down, someone who actually knows about Wallace," he said. "What gave it away?" He gestured to the massive sword on his back. "Let me guess—was it this?"
"Pretty much." Rowena nodded. "I read that students of Wallace Academy specialize in casting magic through blades, traditionally known as athames."
"Wow," Bastion said, clearly impressed. "Pretty and smart. Bran was right about you." He tapped the hilt of his short sword. "Yeah, Wallace students carry two different blades—one for casting and one for full-on combat. Though it's mostly a matter of preference. Some get by just fine with one."
Bastion's expression softened as he regarded Rowena with genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry about what happened to your brother. If I hadn't been on duty, I would've tagged along with Frank." He sighed. "Maybe things wouldn't have gone the way they did."
Rowena shook her head, offering a small but resolute smile. "He's safe. That's all that matters. But… thank you."
Before the moment could settle, Helga's eyes lit up. "Oh! You should meet our friend, Godric!" she said eagerly. "He wields a sword just like you!"
Bastion's brows shot up. "Wait, you know Godric Gryffindor?" He blinked, then let out a laugh of disbelief. "As in the Godric Gryffindor? The Lion of Ignis? That Godric Gryffindor?"
Salazar smirked, arms folding over his chest. "It seems our dear lion cub's name has traveled far and wide."
"You've heard of him?" Rowena asked.
"Me, the entire Clock Tower, and probably half of Camelot." Bastion chuckled, shaking his head. "I have to admit, I missed the duel, but I—" He suddenly froze, realization dawning on him. His eyes darted between the three of them. "Wait a damn minute… you three were the ones who fought in the Bellum Inter Duos alongside him, weren't you?"
Helga grinned. "Guilty as charged," she said before quickly raising her hands. "But not literally. Please don't arrest us."
Rowena paled. "All of Camelot knows who we are?" Her jaw nearly dropped. "That explains all the stares we got last time we visited. By Hecate, it's worse than I thought!"
"You bet, sweetheart," Bastion said with a smirk. "When I heard there was another kid in Excalibur wielding a blade, I won't lie—I was curious. Artoria Pendragon and Genji Shimada aside, I figured someone like Godric would've considered a place at Wallace Academy instead."
Salazar scoffed. "I doubt Godric even knew your school existed, just like most of us here. In fact, I had no idea Wallace Academy was a thing until mere moments ago." He tilted his head. "Perhaps your institution should consider investing in actual advertising instead of relying purely on word-of-mouth folklore."
Bastion let out a short laugh, but his expression carried a knowing weight. "As much as I'd love to agree, there's a reason Wallace Academy keeps itself under wraps." His gaze sharpened. "It isn't exactly a safe learning environment."
Jeanne furrowed her brows. "What do you mean?"
Rowena, however, already seemed to have an idea. "From what little I've read, Wallace Academy has a notorious reputation," she said, her sapphire eyes narrowing. "It's said that many students don't even survive their school years. Deaths within its halls are… abnormally high, whether from unfortunate circumstances or even at the hands of their fellow students."
Bastion's smirk faded, his usual easy demeanor giving way to something colder, more somber. "Pretty much," he admitted. "The Academy wasn't founded to teach students—it was built during a time of war, and they didn't need scholars; they needed warriors. Soldiers."
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "That mindset never really changed. The tradition stuck, and survival of the strongest became our way of life. But here's the thing—anyone who enrolls at Wallace?" His amber and green eyes flicked between them. "They know exactly what they're getting into."
Bastion folded his arms, the weight of his past evident in his stance. "Sure, we learn the basics," he said. "Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration—the entire Excalibur curriculum, really."
His gaze darkened. "But it's what happens outside the classrooms that makes Wallace Academy so dangerous. I won't bore you with the details, but let's just say… those who don't make the cut get cut down."
The air around them shifted, his words carrying an edge that made even the usually unfazed Salazar stiffen. Helga swallowed hard, a bead of sweat tracing down her temple. Jeanne and Rowena exchanged uneasy glances.
"If you think the Clans in The Congregation are vicious," Bastion continued, "then believe me, you've seen nothing yet. I didn't just graduate from Wallace Academy. I survived it." His eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "And I'm all the stronger for it."
Silence stretched between them before he exhaled sharply, his posture relaxing—just slightly. "It's that strength I carry today. The same strength I use to protect the ones who can't stand for themselves." His gaze flickered toward the end of the street, where Donaldson and the slaves had vanished around the corner.
"Like those girls just now. The world is filled with sons of bitches who think having power makes them untouchable. That their station, their status, their magic puts them above the simple folk. That it gives them the right to oppress and hurt those without it."
His hands curled into fists at his sides. "It's why I joined AEGIS. To turn that power against those unworthy of it. To remind them that power doesn't just come with authority—it comes with consequences."
A slow smirk spread across Salazar's face, his emerald eyes glinting with intrigue.
"Wow," Helga said suddenly, breaking the moment. "You sound just like Godric."
Bastion blinked, then grinned. "Really?" He let out a small chuckle. "Seems like he and I would've gotten along."
"Perhaps," Salazar mused, his smirk deepening. "Though… not the version of him we know today."
Bastion raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean? Didn't you guys win? Isn't that slave girl free?"
The four friends exchanged uneasy glances, a heavy pause settling between them before Helga spoke up. "Let's just say things didn't end the way we thought it would."
Salazar's gaze darkened. "And you have the blasted Tower to thank for that."
Bastion stiffened, caught off guard by the bitterness in Salazar's tone, but before he could press further, a familiar voice rang through the crowd.
"Hey, kid! When you're done playing hero with those students, how about a hand over here?" Frank's tone carried a mixture of irritation and amusement.
Bastion let out a breath and grinned. "Coming!" He turned back to the group, shrugging. "Duty calls. Maybe we can pick this up another time." He gave them a nod before looking at Jeanne with a smirk. "Catch you later, sweetheart." He shot her a playful salute, clicking his tongue before turning on his heel and striding toward Frank.
The four friends watched him go, then exchanged glances.
"Bastion Reinhardt," Salazar mused, rubbing his chin. "How very intriguing. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he and Godric were related."
Helga snorted. "Right? He acts so much like him—same righteous streak, same 'I'll fight anyone' attitude. It's almost uncanny."
Rowena, however, remained thoughtful.
"Do you think everything he said about Wallace Academy is true?" Helga asked, shifting her gaze to her. "Because that place sounds straight out of a nightmare."
Rowena nodded. "I don't see why he'd lie to us, and based on what he described, it does match the rumors I've heard. Still, as harsh as it is, no one forces students to attend Wallace Academy. They go in knowing exactly what they're signing up for."
Salazar smirked. "Rules and consequences. Seems like there's an entire school that's taken The Congregation's philosophy and turned it into their entire identity. Sounds fascinating. Maybe I should consider a transfer—just to break the monotony of Excalibur."
Rowena shot him a sharp look. "Don't you dare start, Salazar."
Salazar raised his hands in mock surrender. "I jest, dearest Rowena. I know Ravenclaws are a solemn bunch, but I never took them for being completely humorless."
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Speaking of which, all this chaos has left me famished." She straightened. "How about we find a quiet place to eat before my headache gets any worse?"
Salazar gasped dramatically. "Rowena Ravenclaw, suggesting food? Someone pinch me—I must be dreaming."
Helga grinned. "Sal's right, the world must be ending!"
Rowena groaned, already regretting the invitation.
Helga turned to Jeanne. "How about you, Jeanne? Care to join us?"
Jeanne was about to politely decline, but then her stomach made the decision for her, grumbling audibly. Her face flushed bright red.
Helga beamed. "Guess that's a yes!" She clapped her hands. "Come on, I know this place just down the block. They serve wicked pies!" She took the lead, practically bouncing forward.
"Try not to get us kicked out of this one too, Helga," Rowena sighed, following behind.
"No promises, Row!" Helga called over her shoulder.
Salazar chuckled, shaking his head as he walked alongside them. Jeanne lingered for a moment, her thoughts still swirling, but as she glanced at her friends, she allowed herself a small smile and followed after them.
A part of her lingered on what Bastion had said. What the Sheriff had said. The D'Arc family. The elusive nobles of Avalon.
Jeanne had never given much thought to her family's past, but now, the weight of the unknown pressed down on her. She recalled the moments in her childhood when she had asked her parents—her father, in particular—about his family. At the time, she hadn't noticed it. The way he hesitated. The way his voice would tighten ever so slightly before brushing off her questions. The reluctance, the avoidance—it had always been there.
She had assumed, perhaps naively, that whatever had happened between him and his family was simply too painful to speak about. But now, with everything she had learned, a different possibility gnawed at the edges of her mind. What if her father wasn't who he claimed to be? What if he came from Avalon?
The realization struck her like a hammer. That would explain the strange reaction he had when they first met Headmaster Blaise all those months ago. Her mother had been outright livid, but her father? He wasn't appalled, nor was he angry. He was afraid.
Scared that Blaise might recognize him.
The thought unsettled her, but at the same time, it fueled her. If there was truth buried somewhere in her family's past, she would find it. She had to find it.
With quiet resolve, she fell into step behind her friends, nodding to herself.
****
Rowena was caught in idle conversation with her friends, weaving through their playful banter and the occasional migraine-inducing quips. But then, without warning, a cold shiver ghosted down her spine. A sensation like a breath against her skin, a whisper in the darkness that she could neither hear nor place.
Her sapphire eyes flicked toward the lingering crowd—onlookers still watching the aftermath of the brawl, murmuring amongst themselves. Faces blurred together in the sea of passersby, but then, through the shifting throng, she saw her.
A girl.
Half-shrouded in shadow beneath the drawn hood of her cloak. Her skin was ashen pale, almost deathly, but it was her eyes that held Rowena frozen in place. Amber, glowing from within the darkness, focused entirely on her. There was something chilling in the way she stood, something unnerving about the expression she wore—dark, cold, devoid of anything that could be considered human warmth. A gaze that weighed on her, scrutinized her, like a predator watching its prey.
It made Rowena's stomach turn.
"Row?" Helga's voice cut through the moment, grounding her back to reality. "What's the matter?"
Rowena blinked, tearing her gaze away for just a fraction of a second. When she turned back—the girl was gone. She scanned the crowd, her heart quickening. There was no sign of her, as if she had never been there in the first place.
Rowena hesitated, then exhaled sharply and shook her head.
"It's nothing," she murmured. "Let's go."
With one last glance toward the shadows, she turned away, following her friends down the street.