The soft chime of a brass bell overhead barely registered against the lively din of the restaurant. The air buzzed with conversation, the clinking of cutlery against plates, and the occasional tap of glass meeting glass in cheerful toasts. Jeanne stepped inside, her sapphire eyes sweeping over the cozy interior. The walls, white as polished alabaster, contrasted against the warm amber glow of the crystal lamps overhead. A gentle accordion melody played in the background, lending an easy charm to the space. The air was thick with the enticing aromas of roasted meats, rich creams, and the unmistakable blend of wine, cheese, and freshly baked dough.
Paintings adorned the walls, framed in gilded wood, along with a flag she didn't recognize. At the front counter, a stoutly built man checked out a customer, exchanging pleasantries in a language unfamiliar to her. His black hair, slicked back from his receding hairline, shone under the dim lighting, but it was his thick black mustache—curled slightly at the edges—that truly defined his face. As the customer turned to leave, his gray eyes landed on Helga, and his entire face lit up.
"Mamma mia! Is that you, Helga?" He rounded the counter, smoothing the wrinkles from his crisp white shirt as he approached. "Buongiorno! It's been too long—I thought you had forgotten all about us!"
Helga grinned sheepishly. "Pablo, buon-um-asera?" she attempted, her pronunciation tentative.
Pablo let out a hearty laugh, reaching for her arms before leaning in to kiss both of her cheeks. "Not quite, but you're getting there, bambina." His thick accent rolled with warmth and amusement. "So, what brings you to my humble establishment today, eh?"
"Lunch, obviously! I've been craving Mama's meat pie." Helga's amber eyes drifted toward the packed restaurant, a small frown tugging at her lips. "Looks like you're out of tables, though."
"Sciocchezze!" Pablo scoffed, waving away her concern. "There is always a table for Helga Hufflepuff and her friends!" With a sharp snap of his fingers, he barked something in rapid-fire to a passing waiter, who gave a nod and a thumbs-up before disappearing into the crowd.
"Right this way, bambina," Pablo gestured for them to follow. "I'll go get Edda—she's been dying to see you again." With that, he turned on his heel and vanished through the back door.
Helga turned back to her friends, who were staring at her with varying degrees of amusement and bewilderment.
"What?" she asked, feigning innocence. "I told you I really liked the pies here."
Salazar smirked, crossing his arms. "Helga, dearest, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you have a personal connection with everyone in Caerleon who deals in food."
"For better or for worse," Rowena muttered, shaking her head, though a small smile betrayed her amusement.
Jeanne, meanwhile, was genuinely impressed. "I wish I were half as good at making friends as you," she admitted.
Helga grinned, throwing an arm over Jeanne's shoulder. "Well, stick with me and I'll teach you everything you need to know." She gave a playful wink before leading the way toward their table.
****
The four of them sat tucked in the cozy corner of the restaurant, their plates scraped clean save for a few stray crumbs of pie crust, some dry, others still clinging to the last swipes of sauce. Their glasses sat half-empty, condensation trailing down their sides, while the gentle hum of conversation and the occasional chime of silverware against porcelain filled the air. Rowena sipped at her tea, the fragrant chamomile offering a moment of quiet respite, while Helga leaned back, rubbing her stomach with a satisfied sigh, her tongue darting out to catch a lingering taste of pastry. Across from her, Salazar swirled the remains of his cappuccino, his expression one of calm contentment as he soaked in the ambiance.
Jeanne let the moment linger, the warmth of their company settling over her like a soft blanket before she finally spoke.
"I don't believe I've said this yet, but… thank you," she said, her sapphire gaze flickering between them. "Growing up, friends were never my strong suit. But here in Avalon, I'm glad you've let me into your circle."
Rowena offered a soft smile. "You're more than welcome, Jeanne. If anything, I'm glad to have another girl in our little group—it's been getting rather stale."
"Totally!" Helga grinned, nudging Jeanne's arm. "Not that I hate hanging out with Sal and Godric, but it's nice to shake things up. Honestly, you've been a breath of fresh air."
Jeanne smiled warmly at their words, but Salazar let out a quiet sigh, setting his cup back onto the saucer with deliberate care.
"Unfortunately, I do have to apologize," he said. "When it comes to friendships, I do not give my regard so freely."
Jeanne blinked, caught slightly off guard. "Oh…"
Salazar's emerald gaze studied her carefully. "Rowena and Helga are correct—I do value my friends, and as such, I hold them to a higher standard. I scrutinize them… thoroughly." His lips curled into a smirk. "It's nothing personal. Merely a preference."
For a moment, Jeanne hesitated, glancing down at her empty plate, an unexpected twinge of discomfort creeping into her chest.
Then, just as quickly, Salazar leaned forward, resting his chin against his hand. "That being said, you are on the right track." A rare, almost amused glint flickered in his gaze. "And I must admit, you are… relatively tolerable. And I do say that in the most affectionate way possible."
Helga let out a chuckle, elbowing Jeanne playfully. "That's about as good as it gets with Salazar. Take it and run with it."
Jeanne looked between them, the warmth returning to her chest, and let out a small, genuine laugh. "Well, I suppose I'll have to work my way up to genuinely likable, then."
Salazar smirked, lifting his cup once more. "We shall see."
It was then that Pablo returned to the table, carrying four parfait cups, each topped with a single scoop of ice cream, a swirl of fresh cream, and a glistening cherry perched on top. He placed them down with a proud smile.
"Here you go, on the house," he announced.
"Oh, Pablo, you shouldn't have!" Helga's eyes lit up at the sight of the dessert.
"Anything for you, bambina," Pablo said with a warm chuckle. "Edda insisted. And speaking of which..."
A tall, slender woman stepped up beside him, her brown hair cascading down her back, a rose tucked neatly behind her ear. She wore a simple white dress, a brown apron tied around her waist, her warm eyes lighting up at the sight of Helga.
"Edda!" Helga pushed back her chair, springing to her feet. They embraced immediately.
"Helga, darling, look at you," Edda said, holding her at arm's length with an appraising gaze. "Honestly, has the Academy been starving you? You look absolutely famished. I need to have a word with Chef Gusteau—this is unacceptable."
Helga laughed. "I did have quite the workout today," she admitted. "Don't worry, with my appetite, I'll be back to normal in no time."
She glanced around, as if searching for someone. "By the way, where's—"
"Helga!" a high-pitched voice squealed.
The group turned their eyes toward a young boy, no older than four, dashing toward her in black shorts and a crisp white shirt. His dark hair bounced with every step, olive-toned skin glowing under the restaurant's amber lighting.
Helga bent down, scooping him up effortlessly.
"There's my strong boy!" she beamed, holding him close. "How've you been, Elio? Finally beat those monsters in the closet?"
Elio nodded enthusiastically. "I sure did! Gave them the smash like you said!"
"Like a true Jötunn!" Helga cheered, grinning. "Like Pop-Pop Hufflepuff always said—if you can't spell it—"
"Smash it!" Elio finished, giggling as they both laughed together.
Jeanne smiled as she watched the exchange, her fingers lightly intertwined as her hands rested on the table. The warmth of Helga's interaction with the child was a pleasant sight, but her gaze soon drifted past them, drawn to a table across the restaurant.
There, seated alone, was a girl—likely in her late teens—dressed in the familiar black uniform of an AEGIS Guardian, the same as Bastion's. Her body armor was a sleek blend of metal plating and reinforced Kevlar, a mix of protection and flexibility. Long auburn hair was tied neatly into a ponytail, a deep emerald green ribbon woven through it, cascading down her back. But what truly caught Jeanne's eye was the large canine at her feet. Its fur was as dark as midnight, a vest strapped across its muscular frame, waiting patiently beside its master. Its pointed ears twitched at every movement, amber eyes keenly observing the restaurant.
The girl finished the last of her pasta, dabbing her lips with a cream-colored napkin before pushing back her chair and rising to her feet. The dog perked up immediately, ears flicking forward as it wagged its tail expectantly.
She crossed the restaurant with an air of confidence, her gaze landing on Pablo as she approached the counter.
"Pablo," she greeted, her emerald eyes warm with familiarity. "That was amazing. The cream, the cheese—I can't get enough." She patted her stomach with a smirk. "Seriously, if I keep coming here, I'm going to fail my next physical."
Pablo let out a hearty laugh. "Oh, bambina, you flatter me," he said, placing a hand over his heart. "I am but a humble cook who loves to make people happy."
Then, as if only just realizing, he turned toward Helga and her friends, his thick brows raising in excitement. "Ah, but where are my manners! Everyone, this is Astrea. She's been a regular these past few weeks."
The four friends turned their attention to the newcomer.
Astrea straightened up, placing her right hand over her chest before giving a sharp, disciplined salute.
"Greetings, citizens!" she declared. "Guardian Astrea Vikander of AEGIS! A soldier of righteousness and a champion of justice!"
Salazar folded his arms, raising an unimpressed eyebrow, while Rowena blinked at her, slightly taken aback. Helga, however, grinned and lowered Elio to the ground before eagerly stepping forward to shake the girl's hand.
"Hi, I'm Helga Hufflepuff," she said, her friendly energy unshaken. She then gestured toward the others. "And these are my friends—Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Jeanne D'Arc."
"Charmed," Salazar said flatly.
Rowena and Jeanne merely nodded in response, though Jeanne hesitated. Despite Astrea's chipper expression and the almost childlike enthusiasm in her tone, there was something deeply unsettling about her. Jeanne couldn't quite place it, but the way she carried herself, the unwavering certainty in her words—it felt unnatural, almost rehearsed. Then there was the dog, but Jeanne couldn't shake the feeling that the creature looked less like a loyal companion and more like a wraith pulled straight from the underworld.
"Nice to meet you, Miss Hufflepuff," Astrea said with a polite nod before gesturing toward the hulking canine at her side. "And this is Shadow, my partner."
The dog flicked his ears but remained unnervingly still, his golden eyes locked on them with something far too intelligent for a mere animal.
"We're originally from Camelot," Astrea continued, standing straighter. "But we're temporarily stationed here in Caerleon—at least until our mission is completed."
"Mission?" Rowena's brow arched, the gears of her mind already turning.
Astrea nodded vigorously, her hands folding neatly behind her back. "There are those who seek to sow chaos, who would see harm brought to those who uphold the pillars of justice," she declared. "But don't worry! So long as champions of justice like me stand strong, peace will return to Avalon. You'll see."
Salazar had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, his sharp green eyes twinkling with barely restrained amusement.
"Anyway, I believe my lunch break is over." Astrea gave them a final, crisp salute. "Carry on, and stay safe. If you encounter any evildoers, don't hesitate to call upon me! I'll be there in an instant!"
With that, she spun on her heel, her movements unnervingly precise. A sharp whistle cut through the air, and Shadow immediately rose to his feet, falling in line beside her without a sound. The pair strode out of the restaurant, disappearing into the bustling streets.
A beat of silence followed before Edda leaned in from behind Pablo, her arms crossed, eyes narrowing. "She didn't pay again, Pablo."
Pablo's expression turned stiff, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. "Aye, amore, don't worry. I'll collect it from her tomorrow. I promise."
"That's what you said the last three times, Pablo," Edda deadpanned, unimpressed. "If she skips out again, you'll be on pot duty for the next week and a half."
"Aye, amore, have mercy!" Pablo cried dramatically, clasping his hands together.
Jeanne couldn't help but chuckle, though her mind still lingered on the strange girl and her equally strange companion.
"You sense it too, don't you?"
Salazar's voice pulled Jeanne from her thoughts. When she turned to face him, his emerald gaze was sharp, calculating, his usual air of amusement absent.
"Something's terribly wrong with her," he murmured.
Jeanne opened her mouth, but the words never came. Instead, she shut it, her expression hardening as she gave a slow nod.
Salazar smirked, though there was no humor in it. "You've gone up just a little in my book of approval, Jeanne," he mused, taking a slow sip from his coffee. "You have good instincts. As for her, I can smell it…"
His fingers tightened subtly around the ceramic cup, his gaze flicking toward the door Astrea had disappeared through.
"It's faint," he continued. "But unmistakable." He exhaled softly, his smirk fading.
Rowena's eyes darkened as she caught on to his meaning.
Salazar tapped a single finger against the rim of his cup.
"Blood."
****
The night carried a lingering warmth, a gentle shift from winter's final grasp to the first whispers of spring. The city basked under the pale glow of a full moon, its silver light spilling across the rooftops and streets, casting long shadows through the winding alleys of Caerleon. Though the heightened presence of the Clock Tower's enforcers still loomed over the city like an unshakable specter, the people had learned to live around it. Life, as it always did, found a way to press forward—though for the city's more clandestine figures, it was with much greater difficulty.
The use of Nova in the Bellum Inter Duos had ignited a full-scale investigation into the Shimmer trade, forcing dealers like Crystal Clear deeper underground. With AEGIS tightening its grip on the Industrial District, smuggling routes had collapsed, deals had grown riskier, and trust had become an even rarer commodity. The people of the district had never held love for the Clock Tower, nor did they welcome the sight of any uniformed presence—AEGIS or otherwise. But despite the looming tension, there remained places untouched by the weight of the city's troubles.
Himmel & Hölle stood as one such refuge, its warm glow spilling onto the cobblestone street, promising respite from the burdens of the world. Inside, the tavern pulsed with life, a boisterous sanctuary where weary workers, gamblers, and wanderers alike sought solace in liquor and laughter. The scent of spiced ale and burning tobacco mingled with the sharp tang of sweat, remnants of long hours spent toiling in the iron factories along the river. Some patrons were still clad in soot-stained clothes, their faces weary but their voices loud, hands wrapped around glasses filled to the brim.
Perched on a tall stool at the worn mahogany bar, Bastion sat with his elbows resting on the surface, the rough grain of the wood beneath his fingertips a testament to years of use. A glass of clear liquid rested in his hand, the ice swirling lazily as he rolled his wrist, watching the way the dim light refracted through it. He had never much cared for whiskey—vodka was more to his taste, a habit passed down from his grandfather in the brief years of adulthood they had shared before his passing.
He exhaled, shoulders sinking slightly as the weight of the afternoon pressed against his thoughts. Donaldson. The three slave girls. Goras. The Authority. The Sheriff himself. Each face, each moment, played back in his mind like echoes of a fight unfinished. The gloating, the taunts, the smug wielding of power over the helpless—it stoked a fire in his gut, one that had been burning for longer than he cared to admit.
On paper, today had been only his second formal altercation with The Authority. Off the record, he had lost count. Whether it was an off-duty brawl in the back alleys or a tavern scuffle that left their enforcers spitting teeth onto the floor, it always ended the same. Bruised, broken, bleeding. And yet, they kept coming. As if they couldn't stand the idea of someone pushing back.
He threw back the rest of his drink, the burn trailing down his throat, but it did nothing to smother the fire inside him.
For generations, his family had upheld the belief that law and justice walked hand in hand—that righteousness was a virtue worth defending at all costs. Even now, despite everything, he still clung to that belief. Because if he didn't, then what the hell was he fighting for?
The weight of his greatsword pressed against his back, a silent reminder of the path he had chosen. The blade had carved through flesh, bathed in its share of blood, yet it was more than a weapon—it was the mark of the man he had become. The man he had fought to be.
Wallace Academy had been a crucible, where survival was the only true lesson. His fellow students had sought his head as a trophy, a macabre prize to mount on their walls, and time and again, he had denied them. He hadn't fought just to live—he had fought for those who couldn't. For those whose screams were drowned in the laughter of their oppressors. For the ones whose backs bore the weight of chains, whose tears stained the cold stone of prison cells. For those who stared at the sky through iron bars, praying for a light that would never come.
To Bastion, justice was not just a word. It was not a hollow ideal spoken by men who had never suffered. It was the foundation of his soul, the fire that shaped his very being.
His fingers tightened around his empty glass, the phantom echoes of past promises whispering in his mind.
He had sworn, long ago, that he would never be powerless again.
And it was a promise he would keep.
The scrape of metal against the worn wooden floor pulled Bastion from his thoughts. He glanced to his side as Frank pulled up a seat, dropping onto it with an audible sigh, his broad shoulders slumping against the bar. He gestured wordlessly to the bartender, who gave him a curt nod before reaching for a familiar bottle. The usual.
Frank sat there in silence for a moment, absorbing the low hum of conversation around them, the occasional clink of glasses, the creak of old furniture bearing the weight of tired souls. Only after his whiskey was set in front of him did he finally speak.
"Well, all things considered, the peck'll live." He took a slow sip, his expression unreadable. "Won't be a happy camper for the next few months, though. You can wave a damned wand and knit bones back together in an instant, but making sure they set right? That's a whole different problem."
"Not exactly his first." Bastion lifted his own glass, taking a measured sip. "And with that mouth of his, I'd bet you it won't be the last." A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
Frank shot him a look, unimpressed. "Wipe that damned smile off your face, rookie." His tone was sharp but not unkind. "You're lucky they didn't rip that badge off you and have you packed up on the next train back to Camelot." He leaned in slightly. "And the only reason for that is because Hartshorne hates The Authority almost as much as you do. More so when it comes to pecks."
Bastion exhaled, shaking his head. "Like I said before, Frank, what the hell did you expect me to do?" His voice was low, tight. "Sit back, roll over, play fetch for the Tower? Let them walk all over those people? Get fat off a paycheck while others bleed?" He turned to the older man, jaw clenched. "That ain't me, and you know it."
Frank pinched the bridge of his nose. "By the Gods, kid…" He sighed, turning to face him fully. "Haven't you learned a damned thing since you joined up?"
"You got it in your head that you're some hero of justice, but you're not. You're just a man with a badge." His steel-gray eyes bore into Bastion's, the weight of experience behind them. "Your grandpa—may the Gods bless his soul—he was a hero to a lot of us. But in the end, that's all he was. A man. And he understood that."
Bastion was about to argue, but Frank cut him off with a raised hand.
"And don't you think for a second that I don't know what it's like," Frank said. "I was a rookie once too. I remember what it felt like, thinking I was something special. Thinking I was out there making a difference." He exhaled, shaking his head. "Hell, I remember a time—different place, different faces, same gods-damned situation."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the bar, eyes distant. "The Authority was beating the hell out of some kid—a young elven boy. Couldn't have been older than ten. Barely big enough to fight back, not that he could've even if he tried."
Frank let out a humorless chuckle as the bartender set a fresh glass of whiskey in front of him. He picked it up, took a slow sip, savoring the burn as it coated his throat. "He was a three-striker, on his way to Tartarus. He cried, pleaded, begged." Frank rolled the glass between his fingers. "All it got him was a baton to the head."
Bastion's grip on his own glass tightened.
"I watched it all," Frank continued. "And just like you, I wanted to step in. Hell, I was ready to throw my badge down and start swinging." He turned his gaze to Bastion, steel-gray eyes unwavering. "But someone held me back. Wanna take a wild guess who?"
Bastion frowned. "Can't be Grandpa."
Frank let out a dry chuckle. "Yep. The great Overdeath himself." He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Like you, I lost it. I called him a coward to his face. I demanded to know why. He just stood there, watching me go off. Not saying a word, just waiting. Like an adult waiting for a child to finish throwing a tantrum." He took another sip before setting his glass down. "I told him someone needed to do something."
Frank's expression darkened as he recalled the words that had haunted him for years. "And you know what your grandpa said?" He turned his gaze back to Bastion. "He said, 'Yeah. Someone should. Someday. But it ain't you. And it ain't us. Not now.'"
"I damned near took a swing at him," Frank muttered, shaking his head. "Back then, I didn't want to believe it. I wouldn't. Because I didn't understand." His grip on the glass tightened before he exhaled, his gaze softening. "I sure as hell do now."
Bastion scoffed. "So, what, you just gave up?" His mismatched eyes burned with frustration. "Let the world roll you over and force you back into your hole?" He leaned back, folding his arms. "If this is supposed to be some grand, inspiring speech, you're doing a piss-poor job at it."
Frank's mustache bristled as he shot him a sharp look. "Then you're certifiably as stupid as I was."
Bastion's brow furrowed, but before he could speak, Frank continued.
"What your grandpa said—it wasn't about giving up. It wasn't about sticking to the status quo, or staying in your lane, or letting the system beat you down." Frank's words were steady, firm. "There's a time and place for everything. You wanna change the world? Fine. Everyone does. But you can't do it if you don't have a seat at the godsdamned table." He tapped a finger on the bar. "You have to pick your battles. Know which ones to fight. And more importantly, which ones you can win."
He gestured toward the door, as if motioning to the entire city beyond. "You could beat that peck Goras bloody. You could take down every last one of those Authority agents. And you know what? The Guild would replace them before their bodies got cold. The system doesn't flinch at one rogue AEGIS Guardian making a mess. Hell, it expects it."
He took a sip of his whiskey, letting the words settle. "But you start working smart instead of just working angry? You start climbing the ranks? That's when you hit them where it hurts."
Bastion was silent, his jaw set, but Frank could see the gears turning behind those eyes.
"Your grandpa tried to change AEGIS. Hell, he tried to change the whole damned Tower," Frank said. "But courage? Truth? Justice? None of it means a godsdamned thing without power behind it. Like a sword without a wielder."
He tilted his glass toward Bastion. "Me? I ain't your grandpa. I ain't half the man he was, and I've made my peace with that. I don't have the strength, the clout, or the skills to do what he did."
He leaned in slightly. "But you, kid? You do."
Bastion's eyes flicked toward him.
"You've got what it takes to go all the way—to the top. You make Director one day, and then you can rip The Authority apart from the inside out." Frank smirked, shaking his head. "But you sure as hell ain't doing that if you keep wasting your time getting into scraps with bottom feeders like Goras."
Bastion stared into his glass, watching the last fragments of ice dissolve into the clear liquid. The bartender returned, swapping out the empty glass for a fresh one before pouring a measured shot of vodka. Bastion barely acknowledged him, his fingers curling around the crystal as he exhaled sharply.
"As much as I appreciate your optimism, your faith… it's a long, long road ahead. And I get it. With authority comes power. And with power, you can enact real change." He turned his gaze to Frank. "You said power's like a sword—but how many have to suffer, to fall, to die before that blade ever leaves the forge?"
Frank said nothing, merely watching him.
"Waiting for the right moment while everyone else is left to rot in between," Bastion muttered, rolling the glass between his fingers. "Grandpa gave everything to the Tower, to AEGIS. He bled for justice. He died in the name of it. And for what?"
His mismatched eyes darkened. "So they could build a statue of him? Slap his name on a golden placard to inspire the next wave of bright-eyed recruits—only to grind them into submission? Or worse, line their pockets with enough Platas to make them forget who they even were?"
Frank's silence stretched, but Bastion could see the flicker of something in his expression. He knew the older man understood.
"I believe in justice, Frank," Bastion continued, his grip tightening around the glass. "I believe in what Grandpa stood for." He shook his head, jaw clenching. "But the cracks in the Tower are too deep to ignore. They built this institution to protect people, and now half the bastards wearing the badge treat it like some gilded ornament. A shiny little shield with no meaning. And worse?"
"They'd rather protect men like Goras than stop them."
He exhaled, tilting the glass back and letting the vodka burn its way down his throat.
"Damn it, kid." Frank sighed, running a hand down his face. "You sound just like him."
Frank took a long swig of his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass as he exhaled sharply. His mustache bristled as he set it down with a quiet thud.
"Yeah… your grandpa grew disillusioned with the Tower in his later years. Worse still when Burgess took over as Director." Frank let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "To say that Lamar hated your grandpa's guts would be an understatement. And believe me, the feeling was mutual."
His expression darkened; gaze distant. "After your grandpa passed and Ravenclaw retired, that's when everything went straight to Hell," he muttered. Then, his steel-gray eyes found Bastion's. "That's why I want to believe in you, kid. Believe that you have aspirations beyond just swinging that oversized hunk of metal around, hoping it'll make a difference when—more often than not—it won't."
Bastion's grip on his glass tightened.
Frank swirled the melting ice in his whiskey. "You weren't there that night. In Stornoway." He paused. "It wasn't just a monster I saw. You'd think he was some spirit of vengeance, dragged back into the world by something beyond our understanding. But what I saw?"
He exhaled. "It was twenty years of the Tower's sins made flesh." He swallowed hard. "He's coming for all of us. And there's nothing we can do about it."
"Is it true? About Asriel Valerian?" His mismatched eyes flickered with something between intrigue and apprehension. "About the Sword of Damocles?"
Frank didn't answer immediately. He stared at his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl against the ice, as if searching for something in its depths. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, grave.
"Every damned word of it," he said.
He didn't need to elaborate. The weight in his tone said enough.
Bastion's gaze darkened, his fingers tightening around his glass. Frank's words hung heavy in the air, settling deep in his mind like an anchor. He turned them over, dissecting their weight before finally speaking.
"Grandpa used to say…" Bastion exhaled. "To the unfortunate, the broken, and the damned—sometimes vengeance is the only true form of justice against those who place themselves beyond it." He lifted his gaze. "And the more I think about it… the more I believe he was right."
Frank let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. Then, with a smirk, he lifted his glass. "For once, kid…" he murmured. "I actually agree with you."
Bastion lifted his own glass, the two clicking together in a solemn toast.