Just a step away from the bar counter at Himmel und Hölle, tucked into a shadowed corner where the warm glow of lanterns barely reached, sat a man untouched by the revelry around him. The clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter—all seemed distant, as if they belonged to a world separate from his own.
Professor Workner slumped forward, his arms crossed over the edge of the table, the near-empty bottle of whiskey standing as a silent testament to the hours he'd spent nursing it. Shadows clung to his face, deepening the exhaustion etched into his features. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the ice within clinking softly, a sound swallowed by the tavern's raucous laughter. His thoughts were a relentless tide, washing over him again and again, drowning him in what-ifs and could-have-beens.
The tragedy of Godric and Raine had left its mark, a scar carved deep into his soul. It had not gone unnoticed by his fellow professors, nor by the students who had seen the change in him. But what was there to be done? The past could not be rewritten. He had tried. Gods, he had tried.
Perhaps if he had done more, been better, guided Godric differently, the boy wouldn't have walked this path. Perhaps he could have spared him the grief, the rage that now consumed him. But wishes were nothing more than ghosts of regret, whispering useless comforts in the quiet hours of the night.
Workner sighed, lifting his glass to his lips. The whiskey burned as it slid down his throat, offering a fleeting warmth, a distraction from the cold weight that refused to leave his chest.
The scrape of a chair against the wooden floor pulled Workner's weary gaze upward. Across from him, a figure draped in black lowered himself into the seat with an air of quiet familiarity. Serfence didn't speak at first. He simply reached for an empty glass, uncorked the whiskey bottle with an effortless motion, and poured himself a drink. The soft glug of liquor filled the silence before he set the bottle back down with a measured hand.
"It seems like only yesterday you found me here, drowning my own troubles," Serfence murmured, lifting the glass to his lips. A ghost of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "How the tables have turned."
Workner let out a short, pained laugh. "I suppose so." He exhaled, staring into his own glass as the whiskey swirled in slow, lazy circles. "Guess we both need to drown our sorrows from time to time."
Serfence set his drink down, his gaze even but lacking its usual sardonic edge. "It isn't your fault, Workner," he said plainly. "You tried. We all did. There's no shame in that."
"Then why don't I feel any different?" Workner adjusted his glasses, his steel-gray eyes clouded with something deeper than regret. "We could've done more. Exhausted every possibility." His fingers tightened around the glass. "I was there last night, Serfence… at The Congregation."
Serfence's brow lifted slightly.
"I saw him," Workner continued. "Gryffindor, I mean. I saw what he did… what he's become." His knuckles whitened against the glass. "I've seen the aftermath. The broken bodies lining the Hospital Wing. Busted, bloodied, barely clinging to life. Doctor Adani is running herself ragged trying to keep up, but..." He trailed off, exhaling sharply.
"As a professor of Excalibur, I know I shouldn't say this… but he's no longer human." His expression darkened. "He's a monster… and it's all my doing."
Serfence drew in a slow breath. "I warned him," he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Back at the Clock Tower, before the duel. I told him what lay ahead if he failed—that the road before him would be long and dark." He took a sip, eyes flickering with something distant. "He didn't believe me then. Now? Not so much."
A heavy pause settled between them before he continued, his tone quieter. More resigned.
"It's a road I know all too well. One I've walked more times than I care to remember. First comes the pain. The sorrow. Then the anger, the hate. And then..." His free hand curled into a fist. "Nothing. Silence. Just a dull, empty numbness. And that's when you know... you're truly lost."
"Was that how you felt?" Workner lifted his gaze to Serfence. "When Amelia died?"
Serfence didn't answer right away. His fingers idly traced the rim of his glass, the amber liquid within barely disturbed. Then, finally, he met Workner's gaze, his expression unreadable.
"Didn't you?"
The words were simple, yet they carried weight, a quiet accusation wrapped in shared grief.
Workner parted his lips as if to respond, but before he could speak, a sharp, high-pitched whine from the tavern's speakers cut through the air. He flinched, his teeth gritting as the sudden noise rattled his skull. Across the room, a spotlight flickered to life, illuminating the small wooden stage in the corner.
The low murmur of the tavern dimmed as all eyes turned toward the stage. Serfence exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes.
"Oh, bloody joy," he muttered. "I forgot it was open mic night. Now I get to spend the rest of the evening being serenaded by the tone-deaf and the talentless."
Workner let out a small chuckle, the first genuine one in what felt like ages. "Remember when Creedy used to get up there? That damned rendition of his favorite song?"
"Please don't remind me," Serfence grumbled. "His singing still haunts my nightmares."
Before Workner could press further, movement on the stage caught their attention. A man stepped into the light, dressed in dark denim and a fitted black jacket over a crisp white shirt. His gait was unhurried, deliberate, as if each step carried the weight of something unspoken. He approached the grand piano at the center of the aged stage, his fingers trailing over the faded, blackened wood, tracing the years of wear that had settled into its surface.
He exhaled softly, then lifted the cover. A thin cloud of dust rose, swirling in the golden glow of the spotlight before vanishing into the dim air. The ivory and ebony keys lay beneath, their once-bright sheen now dulled, yellowed by time. His gaze flickered over the faded inscription above the keyboard—Steinway & Sons, the gold lettering worn away by years of touch. For a moment, he simply stood there, as though contemplating whether to disturb the silence that lingered between the instrument and its past. Then, with a slow breath, he lowered himself onto the bench, his hands hovering over the keys.
Workner's eyes widened in surprise. "Edward, is that?"
Serfence followed his gaze, his own expression darkening.
"Professor Ashford." He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as if bracing himself for what was to come. "Of all the cursed nights to drink in peace," he muttered under his breath. "What in blazes is he doing up there?"
Workner, however, leaned forward, his interest piqued. "I didn't take him for a performer."
"Neither did I," Serfence replied. "Then again, I didn't take him for a professor either, yet here we are."
On stage, Ryan's fingers hovered over the keys, tapping lightly, feeling the slight give as the hammers struck the aged strings within. A hesitant note rang out, reverberating through the tavern like the first ripple on still water. The instrument was worn, slightly out of tune, but it had life yet—just enough to sing.
The tavern fell into an uneasy silence. Open mic nights at Himmel & Hölle were usually filled with drunken ballads, off-key dirges, and the occasional bard trying his luck with a half-baked limerick. But this—this was different.
Then, with a breath, he leaned forward and pressed down.
The first true notes rang out, slow and deliberate, a melody that pulsed through the wooden walls like a heartbeat. It was rich, deeper than anything the tavern had heard that night. The sound curled into the air, pulling the attention of every soul in the room. Conversations died mid-sentence. The barkeep, mid-wipe, froze, glass in hand. The workers, the gamblers, even the drunkards who had long since lost themselves in their cups, turned toward the stage.
Ryan's fingers moved effortlessly now, the tune unfolding with a slow, brooding grace. It wasn't a tavern song, nor was it a butchered cover of some well-known melody. It was heavier—something raw, something that bled.
Serfence's brow furrowed.
"That sound... it's almost like—"
"Like something born of hurt… of loss," Workner murmured.
Then, the man's voice cut through the rising melody. Low, rasping, haunting. The kind of voice that carried weight, that pressed against the ribs and refused to leave. It vibrated through the space, seeping into the cracks of the old tavern like a ghostly whisper refusing to be forgotten.
[Song – Break Into My Heart by Daughtry]
Serfence, for the first time that evening, remained silent. His fingers drummed idly against his arm, his gaze distant, unfocused. Whatever words he might have had were lost beneath the rising melody.
Ryan's voice wove through the tavern, each note curling into the dimly lit space like tendrils of smoke. His foot tapped softly against the wooden floor, keeping time, the other pressing the piano pedals with careful precision. The tavern itself seemed to hold its breath. The music dipped, softened—like a whisper spoken in the dark, a confession no one was meant to hear.
Then came the second chorus.
His voice struck like lightning.
It rang out, raw and electric, cutting through the stillness like a blade against glass. The shift was jarring, the contrast striking. A few gasped, others stiffened in their seats, caught off guard by the sudden intensity. The younger patrons were merely awed—but the older ones…
Their reactions were different.
They sat motionless, eyes closing as if swept away by a tide of grief and nostalgia. Their expressions darkened, their minds drifting elsewhere, lost to things long buried—memories clawing their way back to the surface, stirred awake by the music. For them, it wasn't just a song. It was something more. Something remembered.
Serfence and Workner sat frozen, the music threading through their minds like a cruel specter, unearthing memories they had long cast into the abyss. Workner's fingers trembled around his glass, his breath caught in his throat. The song reached deep, wrenching buried emotions to the surface, forcing him to remember—her.
Amelia.
Her smile, soft and unguarded. The warmth of her touch, the way her fur felt beneath his fingers. The way she laughed, the soothing cadence of her voice that had once been a constant in his life. For a moment, it was as if she was there again, standing before him. Real. Tangible. Just within reach.
Then, the song ended.
The final note hung in the air, lingering like a ghost.
Silence followed.
The applause that rose was not the raucous cheer of drunkards, but something softer. More reverent. Some patrons raised their glasses in quiet toasts, others simply sat in stillness, lost in thought. The weight of the melody still clung to the air, as if the room itself had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.
Serfence let out a slow breath, his grip tightening around his glass. "Damn it all," he said. "I didn't come here to remember."
He lifted his gaze and blinked, feeling something wet against his cheek. He reached up, his gloved fingers brushing against his skin.
Tears.
He hadn't even noticed them falling.
****
Ryan descended the short staircase at a slow, measured pace, his boots tapping against the creaking wood beneath him. No one moved to take his place on stage. It was as if his performance had drained the room of any remaining inspiration, leaving only the echo of his song lingering in the air.
He crossed the floor, navigating through the crowd with an ease that suggested familiarity, though his eyes remained sharp, ever-watchful. The bartender had already placed a full tankard on the counter, and Ryan grabbed it without breaking stride, taking a deep swig before continuing on.
As he passed the bar, his gaze flicked toward two AEGIS Guardians seated there. The younger one, burdened with an absurdly large sword strapped to his back, gave him a nod. The older man, grizzled and thick with years of experience, lifted his whiskey glass in quiet acknowledgment. Ryan returned the gesture, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
The tavern itself was as rustic as they came—a far cry from the sleek, soulless bars of his past life. His brown eyes swept the room, taking in the mix of patrons. Factory workers in soot-streaked jumpsuits, their sleeves tied around their waists, the scent of sweat and metal clinging to them. Others, dressed in woolen suits and crisp white shirts, their ties loosened after a long day in Caerleon's financial district.
He chuckled to himself. Different city, different faces, but the same old story.
Just as he was about to head toward a table, a familiar voice called out to him.
"Professor Ashford!"
He turned his gaze toward the corner of the room, where two familiar figures sat. Professor Workner, his expression warm and welcoming, and Serfence, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in that perpetually unimpressed way of his.
Ryan sighed. Serfence had always been a tough one to crack.
Still, he strolled over, tankard in hand, ready to see what this was about.
"Well, fancy running into you two here." Ryan pulled out a chair from the neighboring table, its wooden legs scraping against the floor as he sat down without waiting for an invitation. "You don't mind, do you?" He cast a sidelong glance at Serfence, who exhaled sharply, as if personally affronted by the audacity. "It gets kinda lonely drinking alone."
Workner grinned, always the more welcoming of the two. "That was an amazing performance. I've never heard that song before. Could it be from your time?"
"One of my personal favorites," Ryan replied with an easy smile. "Actually, got the whole collection on vinyl. I'd lend it to you if you—" He paused abruptly, noticing the blank confusion written plainly across Workner's face. "You have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" Ryan sighed lightly. "Right. Forget I said anything."
Serfence, arms still folded, was less impressed. "I've known you as a professor of Mundane Studies, not a bard. I take it this is some hidden talent?"
Ryan took a casual sip from his tankard before setting it down with a soft thunk against the table. "What can I say? I'm a man of many talents," he said with a lopsided smirk. "Teaching pays the bills. Music's just something I do to keep my soul from rotting."
"With a voice like that, I'm surprised you aren't famous in your world," Workner said.
Ryan chuckled, but there was little warmth in it. "I'm not one for the limelight," he admitted. "Fame doesn't sit well with me. And if you knew how things turned out back home, you wouldn't think of it as much of a prize."
Workner took a slow sip of his whiskey. "You know, the Excalibur Music Club has been out of comission for a while now," he mused. "Perhaps you'd like to bring it back?"
Ryan rubbed his chin, considering. "Music club, huh?" His eyes flickered with mild interest. "That's... something to think about."
Before the conversation could continue, Serfence cut in. "The way you play, the way you sing—it carries something I recognize." His fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic pattern against his arm, his gaze unreadable. "That song, Ashford… That wasn't just an idle performance. It held meaning. To something." A pause. "Or someone."
Ryan exhaled, letting the words settle in the space between them. He lifted his drink, taking a measured sip before setting it down with careful precision. "You've got sharp ears, Serfence," he admitted. "You're right. It was for someone." His words dipped lower. "Another time, another life."
Workner's expression softened, his fingers tightening around his own glass. "Someone important to you?"
Ryan's eyes flickered with something distant, something unspoken. Then, just as quickly, he masked it behind a lopsided smirk. "Yeah," he muttered, his thumb absently grazing the golden band around his ring finger. "Someone I loved. Someone I lost."
Workner shifted. "I'm sorry. We didn't mean to dredge up painful memories."
Ryan shook his head. "Don't be. She always told me not to mourn the dead, but to celebrate the life they once had. The memories we shared." He gave a small, humorless chuckle. "Doesn't do much to dull the pain, though."
Ryan's gaze lifted, sweeping between Workner and Serfence, studying the way their expressions tensed at his words. "And something tells me you two know the feeling all too well."
Neither of them spoke immediately, but their reactions said enough. Workner looked down, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, his grip tightening around it. Serfence, however, kept his expression schooled, but his silence was its own admission. His eyes flicked away, avoiding Ryan's gaze.
Then, after a moment, Serfence met his eyes once more, his stare sharp. "Bold assumption to make, Ashford," he said. "You couldn't possibly know a man's past from a simple glance."
Ryan smirked, tapping a finger against his tankard. "Maybe," he conceded. "But I know the look. And more importantly, I know the type." He rested an elbow on the table.
"Like I said—another time, another life. And in that other life, I learned a lot about people. People who make a living wearing masks, saying more lies than words. People with bad thoughts and even worse intentions."
He tilted his head. "And I made a living finding those people out."
Serfence's eyes narrowed.
Ryan casually swirled his drink.
"Speaking of which," Serfence said. "I know you're bound by law and magic to never divulge any information about your timeline." He adjusted his posture, locking onto Ryan with an unwavering gaze. "That being said, I was hoping you might put a suspicion of mine to rest."
Ryan raised a brow, intrigued now. He studied Serfence for a beat before nodding slightly. "Suspicion, huh?" he mused, tapping his fingers lightly against his tankard. "Now that's a loaded word." His smirk lingered, but his expression sharpened, the ease in his posture undercut by keen interest. "Alright, Professor. I'm listening."
Serfence leaned forward slightly. "The Darkwatch," he said. "More precisely, Section Thirteen."
Ryan's expression shifted the moment the words left Serfence's lips. The casual, almost flippant air he carried dissolved in an instant, replaced by something unreadable—something cold. His grip around the tankard tightened, though only slightly, barely perceptible to anyone not watching closely.
Workner, however, looked between them, his steel-grey eyes flicking to Ryan with confusion. "The Darkwatch? Section Thirteen?" he repeated, brows knitting. "Edward, what does that mean?"
"You've got an interesting taste in bedtime stories, Professor," Ryan finally said. "Where'd you hear that name?"
"Only in passing," Serfence continued. "Whispers in the dark about individuals from a world beyond our own. Something about a wizarding war. A dark lord. A boy who lived. A calamity." His fingers tapped idly against his whiskey glass.
"But more than that, I've heard of a secret organization operating in the shadows. One with a singular directive—to maintain the balance between the Mundane World and the Wizarding World." He lifted his drink, studying Ryan over the rim of the glass. "By whatever means necessary."
Ryan remained silent. His expression unreadable.
"And Section Thirteen," Serfence pressed on, "is a division within the Darkwatch, much like a certain faction within the Clock Tower that I am not at liberty to confirm nor deny exists."
His lips curled faintly. "A group of highly trained individuals—who track, eliminate, and neutralize threats. Without prejudice. Without mercy. And most of all—without consequence."
"And furthermore," Serfence continued. "There's a name. A name that makes even the boldest hesitate. A name that chills the blood of every dark wizard who dares speak it. A name that lingers like a curse, heavy with dread." He paused. His gaze sharp. "They called him… Nosferatu."
His eyes locked onto Ryan's with unwavering certainty. "So tell me, Professor Ashford—does any of that ring a bell?"
For a long moment, there was nothing but silence between them.
Ryan exhaled slowly, the breath curling from his nose like steam from a kettle left too long on the flame. His eyes half-lidded, unreadable, he leaned back in his chair with practiced ease. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled a slim case, flicked it open, and drew out a cigarette.
With a flick of his thumb, his silver lighter flared to life—its soft click and the hiss of flame the only sounds in the space between them. He lit the tip, took a slow drag, and let the smoke curl upward in lazy tendrils toward the ceiling, where it vanished into the shadows.
The whole time, his gaze never left Serfence.
He removed the cigarette from his mouth, tapping ash to the side. When he spoke, his voice had dipped a note lower—smooth as velvet, but with the cold edge of a blade beneath.
"Well, look at you," he mused. "And here I thought I was the only one making bold assumptions."
Serfence's smirk deepened ever so slightly. "Let's just say it takes one to know one," he countered. "You said you knew the type. Well…" His eyes gleamed in the low light. "So do I."
Workner glanced between them, taking a slow, nervous sip from his glass.
A brief silence stretched before Ryan let out a chuckle, then a full-bodied laugh, shaking his head as he wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh, you almost had me there," he said. "Is this your idea of fun? Spinning campfire tales over drinks? Because honestly, I like it. Bit of a change of pace."
"Nosferatu, huh?" He rolled the name over his tongue like he was tasting it. "Yeah, I know it. Old movie, way before my time. Preferred the remake, though. Not so much the original." He lifted his tankard, only to realize it was empty, and exhaled sharply before setting it back down.
"Look, I get it. You want to believe I'm some secret assassin, slaying dark wizards for sport. But sorry to disappoint you. I'm just a teacher. Grew up in the city, spent my life helping kids get into college. That's it. No grand conspiracy, no hidden past." His tone was casual, but his eyes remained unreadable.
Serfence raised an eyebrow.
"But," Ryan continued. "I'll humor you. Let's say, hypothetically, an organization like that did exist. If there really was a man who hunted dark wizards in the shadows, do you honestly think either Mundanes or the magical world would tolerate him? A sanctioned killer walking free?" He exhaled. "And if such a man did exist… well, with how things are now in my world, I'd bet he's long dead."
Serfence's smirk widened slightly. "For that, I have no doubt."
Workner, still lost in the subtext of the exchange, frowned. "Alright, are you two going to keep talking in riddles, or is someone actually going to explain what the hell is going on?"
Ryan chuckled, shaking his head. "Nothing to explain," he said, placing his tankard down. "Just shooting the shit."
Serfence tilted his head slightly. "If you say so." But his sharp gaze told a different story—one that said he wasn't convinced.
Ryan met his eyes, his expression unchanging. "I do."
****
The front door burst open, the sudden crash cutting through the murmur of the tavern. Every patron turned toward the entrance as the heavy shuffle of boots filled the space. Six men strode inside, clad in AEGIS guard uniforms, light armor strapped over their torsos. Some bore swords at their hips, others had wands holstered against their belts. Their presence soured the air, a ripple of unease rolling through the room. More than a few patrons shot them withering glares, yet the newcomers carried themselves with smug confidence, hands stuffed in pockets, smirks curling their lips.
They'd been here before. More than once. The regulars knew their routine well enough—never here for the drinks, never here for a good time.
Then, behind them, a larger figure ducked under the doorframe and entered. A man in his mid-forties, his broad frame nearly filling the space. Streaks of white ran through his otherwise jet-black hair, and he stood just shy of seven feet, his physique carved from years of battle. A massive greatsword was strapped across his back. But what drew the most attention were his eyes—crimson, burning with amusement as he scanned the room. His smirk widened, revealing jagged, shark-like teeth.
His gaze landed on the bartender.
Unlike the rest of the patrons, the bartender barely reacted. He didn't cower, didn't flinch. He simply stared at them with a tired, half-lidded gaze, as if he'd seen their kind too many times to be impressed.
At the bar, Bastion and Frank both turned in their seats. Bastion exhaled loudly, rubbing his temples, while Frank's lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes sharpening.
"By the Gods," Bastion muttered, shaking his head. "Isn't anything sacred anymore? Of all the lunkheads to follow us to Caerleon, they had to drag in the dumbest one."
Frank scoffed. "If it isn't Captain Clegane himself," he said under his breath. "The Ogre of AEGIS. Bet you a thousand Platas he's up to his old tricks. The man couldn't change his ways any more than a Niffler could stop stealing."
Clegane strode toward the bar, his presence casting a long shadow over the patrons. Those sitting nearby shifted uncomfortably, some hastily abandoning their stools to put distance between themselves and the towering man. Only Frank and Bastion remained unmoved.
Lowering his frame, Clegane leaned in, his jagged grin stretching wider. "Yo," he greeted the bartender, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Packed house tonight. Must be raking in the dough. More than I can say for half the mooks burning their coin in this dump."
The bartender remained silent; his expression unreadable as he calmly wiped down a glass. His hands worked methodically, not once breaking eye contact with the brute before him. The lack of reaction made Clegane's grin falter, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.
"You know," Clegane continued, "I've been real patient with you, little man. But I'm fresh out of shits to give." He gestured vaguely to his men, his movements lazy but menacing. "We run this district now. Everybody pays their fair share."
His smirk returned, colder this time. "Remember that lady down the street? The one with the fire? Same thing can happen here." His breath thick with whiskey. "So do yourself a favor and pay up. Like everyone else."
The moment hung thick in the air—until Bastion let out a slow, unimpressed whistle.
"Wow," he said, tilting his head, his mismatched eyes twinkling with amusement. "Look at the balls on this guy." He gestured lazily toward Clegane before turning on his stool to face him fully.
"You know, racketeering is a felony, and here you are, doing it out in the open. And right in front of two AEGIS Guardians, no less." Bastion flashed a smirk. "So either you think we wouldn't give a shit, or you're actually stupid enough to believe we're just specks of dust you can blow away."
Frank exhaled sharply and climbed off his stool. "Hate to admit it, but the kid's got a point." His gaze was sharp, a flicker of something dangerous behind it. "And you've never been one for subtlety, peckerwood. Shit might fly back in Camelot, but not here. Here, you ain't got your Chief to cover your ass."
Clegane smirked, his jagged teeth flashing like a predator toying with its prey. "Well, lookie what we got here, boys." He jerked his chin toward Frank and Bastion. "If it ain't the half-breed mutt and his handler."
His men chuckled, the sound dripping with cruel amusement.
"You got one thing right, Frank," Clegane continued. "I don't give a shit about you. Either of you." His gaze flicked to Bastion, dismissive. "Sure, go ahead, file a complaint." He made a mocking gesture with his fingers. "Like the hundreds of do-gooders before you. But we both know that little scrap of paper's gonna find its way into a fireplace long before it ever reaches someone who gives a damn."
Frank's jaw tightened, his moustache bristling.
"You and I, Frank, we've had this badge for a long time. We know how this works. The system's a rigged game. Always has been. You think that pension's gonna put my ass on a beach somewhere, sipping cocktails for the rest of my days?" Clegane scoffed. "Nah, I've got plans. You could've had a cut too, old man. But you're just too straight and narrow."
"That's because I have something you don't, Clegane," Frank shot back. "Morals. A spine. A shred of decency." He crossed his arms. "So how about you and your boys turn your asses around and walk out of here? Promise me you won't be back, and maybe—just maybe—I won't haul the lot of you in chains."
Silence fell, thick and weighted.
Then Clegane threw his head back and laughed. A slow, wheezing cackle that echoed through the tavern. He wiped at his eye, grinning. "Oh, you're serious?" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Then let me laugh harder!" He erupted into another fit of laughter, his men joining in, the sound grating like rusted gears.
He pointed at Frank. "Oh, could you believe this freaking guy?"
Bastion exhaled as he stepped off his stool. His fingers curled at his sides, his expression dark as his mismatched eyes locked onto Clegane and his pack of underlings.
"Oh? Did I make you mad, mutt?" Clegane sneered; his jagged teeth bared in a predator's grin. "You really think you've got what it takes to take on the Ogre of AEGIS?" His hand drifted back to the massive sword strapped to his back. "You can swing that damned blade all you want, but you ain't no Overdeath."
"You wanna bet?" Bastion's fingers brushed the hilt of his greatsword—only for Frank to hold out a hand, stopping him.
"You're right about one thing, Clegane. We've been in this business a long time." His gaze sharpened. "Long enough to know there are three cardinal rules in a bar. One, don't mix whiskey with anything. Two, keep your hands—and your bias—to yourself. And three…"
A smirk flickered across his lips. "Don't threaten the man who pours the drinks." He jerked his chin toward the tavern.
Clegane and his men turned—and froze. Half the patrons had risen from their seats, hands resting on hilts, fingers twitching over wands and weapons. At the far end of the room, a trio stood apart: Professor Serfence, Workner, and an unfamiliar man. Clegane recognized the first two by name and reputation, and that alone was enough to make his gut tighten.
He sucked in a slow breath before forcing a grin. "Come on, boys. Let's hit the streets—place is too crowded anyway."
His men hesitated, confused, but followed as he strode toward the exit. At the door, the captain threw a glance over his shoulder at the bartender. "Be seeing you, chum." Then he stepped into the night, his men trailing behind.
The tavern exhaled as one.