As Clegane and his men disappeared into the night, Frank and Bastion let out a quiet breath. Bastion's grip loosened on his greatsword, though his mismatched eyes remained locked on the doorway, half-expecting the ogre to charge back in and finish what he started. Only when Frank's hand settled on his shoulder did he finally turn away, letting the older man guide him back to the barstools.
The bartender placed two fresh glasses in front of them without a word—one whiskey, one vodka, both top shelf. Frank gave him a small salute before the man moved down the counter, pouring more drinks for the waiting patrons. Bastion noted the easy grins exchanged; the way glasses were lifted in appreciation. On the house, he guessed, given how many toasts were made in the bartender's direction.
"Gaston and I go way back," Frank said, taking a slow sip of his whiskey and tipping his glass toward the bartender. "Doesn't look it, but he used to be part of a militia called The Watch."
"I've heard of them." Bastion leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. "Weren't they stationed in frontier towns back in the day?"
Frank nodded slowly. "Quiet towns, hidden away in quiet corners of Avalon… at least, they stayed quiet until trouble came knocking." His gaze grew distant, memories surfacing as he spoke. "When I was your age, one of my assignments was a settlement by the sea—a little place called Falmouth. It was quaint, peaceful. Beautiful, even. I fell in love with that town—figured I'd retire there someday."
His eyes softened briefly before hardening again. "Gaston's squad was stationed there too. They were good men. Loyal. Most of them had settled down, built lives, started families." Frank's lips twitched into a faint, nostalgic smile. "They had a bond, a camaraderie, stronger than steel. Hell, they even welcomed a stray like me into the fold."
Bastion exhaled slowly, leaning forward. "I get the feeling this isn't a story with a happy ending."
Frank shrugged, a weary sigh escaping him. "It was happy—until it wasn't. Falmouth was close to disputed territory, a cluster of rival clans fighting over scraps of land, resources… power. Eventually, they saw Falmouth as an asset they couldn't afford to pass up." He paused, expression darkening. "That's when the fighting started. It was brutal. Relentless."
His voice quieted, heavy with memories. Frank gestured vaguely to his midsection, lifting his shirt just enough to reveal a jagged, pale scar that traced his torso. "Spear caught me good—split me open like a damn fish. It's a miracle I didn't spill my guts all over the street."
Bastion stayed quiet, listening.
"The battle lasted three days. I went down on the second." Frank paused. "But Gaston? He kept fighting. We found him at the end, standing alone amidst the bodies. His sword broken in half, his brothers scattered dead around him—and the invaders, hundreds of them, piled up like driftwood." He shook his head softly. "Three hundred bodies surrounding one man. And when the survivors saw what he'd become, they fled and never dared set foot near Falmouth again."
Bastion frowned. "Was he wounded?"
Frank's words tinged with quiet regret. "Physically, he was fine. But something inside him died that day—something that never healed." He paused, gaze drifting into the distance. "He never spoke another word. Not once."
Bastion's fingers drummed slowly against the crystal rim of his glass. Frank's words hung heavily in the air between them, lingering like a bitter taste.
"Maybe it's a vow of silence, maybe not," Frank continued quietly. "But I don't think it's honor that keeps him quiet. It's the weight of everything he's lost. The fight's gone out of him." Frank paused; his gaze distant, burdened by memories. "I've seen Gaston face down men twice his size without even flinching. Some folks call it strength. But me?"
He exhaled slowly, heavily, the lines of his face deepening with a quiet dread. "I see a man who's just stopped caring. That look in his eyes—like there's nothing left worth fighting for. To tell you the truth, kid, that scares the hell out of me. More than dying ever could."
Bastion remained silent, fingers still tapping thoughtfully against his glass, the older Guardian's words echoing in his mind long after they'd been spoken.
"Look, kid, the Tower ain't perfect," Frank admitted. "Hell, it's been rotting from the inside out for years. That's exactly why bastards like Clegane do whatever the hell they want—no oversight, no consequences. Sure, we've all heard the whispers in the halls, but now they're strutting around openly like they own the damned place."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Back in Camelot, everyone just accepts it as the way things are. Accountability's nothing more than a fairy tale, and Internal Affairs is nothing but a punchline—lip service to keep the masses quiet."
Frank's gaze drifted to the bar patrons, who laughed and clinked their glasses, oblivious. "But Caerleon ain't Camelot. These folks—they deserve better than to let that corruption burrow into their city."
Bastion exhaled slowly, considering Frank's words carefully before taking another sip of vodka. "Problem is, Frank, the rot's already here. You just haven't seen it yet, not that I blame you. After all, the Sheriff may be friends with Director Burgess, but he's not stupid. He knows exactly how the game's played."
Bastion paused, glancing over his shoulder at the table where Serfence, Workner, and the unfamiliar man sat. "No doubt Hartshorne's got a laundry list of schemes running all across Caerleon. And as much as he likes to think he's the top dog, he knows damn well he stays that way only as long as none of his shit lands on Excalibur's doorstep."
"Like it or not, Headmaster Blaise calls the shots in this city. The man's got power, respect, and—more importantly—a reputation strong enough to keep things stable. And if I were a betting man, I'd say Blaise won't take too kindly to a lawman abusing his authority and his station in the presence of his students."
Frank chuckled softly, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe you're not entirely hopeless after all," he quipped, earning a sharp scowl from Bastion. "But you're right. On paper, sure—the Mayor and Sheriff run this city. But truth is, the real muscle behind Caerleon lies with the Academy. More specifically, whoever's sitting in the headmaster's chair."
A grin spread slowly across his face; eyes gleaming knowingly. "And trust me when I say, Blaise Windsor isn't a man to take lightly."
"Oh?" A faint smirk formed upon Bastion's face. "Sounds like there's a story there."
Frank returned the smirk, but shook his head. "Another time, kid."
****
On the second floor of the tavern, Isha stood in silence, elbows braced against the worn wooden banister. The flickering glow of lamplight cast shadows beneath her hood, obscuring the fierce intensity of her amber eyes as she followed the large man and his soldiers until they vanished into the darkness beyond. Her gaze narrowed sharply, tension tightening in her jaw. Fingers twitched slightly, restless and eager, as heat simmered beneath her skin, radiating outward. Small sparks traced the edges of her cloak, embers glowing briefly before fading back into shadow.
She drew in a slow breath, steadying the rage that burned within her chest like a smoldering furnace.
The time had finally come.
With a surge of purpose, Isha straightened, the air around her crackling gently, bending and shimmering with heat. Then, in a swirl of thick black smoke and glowing embers, she vanished, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of scorched wood and the lingering echo of vengeance.
****
Clegane and his men marched down the deserted street, their heavy boots resonating like distant drumbeats against the cobblestone pavement. Overhead, crystal lamps cast pools of wavering amber light, stretching their shadows into monstrous shapes that danced along the walls of empty buildings. His soldiers, fortified by alcohol, laughed and shouted boisterously, arms slung around each other as if their shared bravado could shield them from the night.
Yet Clegane remained withdrawn, his expression twisted into a grim mask of barely-contained fury. His crimson eyes narrowed, replaying the humiliating encounter at the tavern over and over—Frank's smug smile, and worse, the arrogant gaze of his insolent partner. His jagged teeth ground together as bitterness ate away at his resolve, threatening to boil over into rage.
The hours slipped quietly past, marked only by the distant, hollow chime of the clock tower striking midnight. Caerleon had grown still, the bustling daytime streets now abandoned except for the occasional figure staggering drunkenly home or shadowy silhouettes lingering suspiciously in alleyways. Passersby observed the party with contemptuous glares, their hushed murmurs and disapproving clicks of the tongue lost beneath the clamor of drunken soldiers.
Clegane barely acknowledged their presence. His mind drifted to memories he'd long wished forgotten—to a past in the so-called golden age of the Clock Tower, under the oppressive shadow of Wilhelm Reinhardt, known to the world as Overdeath. That celebrated hero of justice had always turned Clegane's stomach. Justice didn't fill empty bellies or shield you from the cruelty of stronger men.
His father had been a fool, preaching honesty and integrity despite their poverty. And what had his virtue earned him? Death. Clegane could still picture his father, proud yet helpless, as ruthless men stripped everything away—ending his life with casual brutality. That day, young Clegane learned the only lesson that mattered:
Strength was truth. Power was virtue.
Suddenly, an icy sensation crawled up Clegane's spine, tearing him from his dark reflections. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening as a dreadful realization settled over him—the street had fallen utterly silent.
No drunken laughter. No footsteps. No city sounds.
"Boys?" Clegane's voice echoed hollowly through the oppressive silence, tight with unfamiliar dread. His eyes flicked anxiously from shadow to shadow, each subtle movement tightening the knot in his gut. He forced a strained chuckle. "Real funny, guys. Joke's over. Quit screwing around and get out here."
Nothing.
His fingers curled into fists. "I'm serious! Knock it off and get your asses out here—now!"
A droplet landed on his cheek. Thick. Warm.
Instinctively, he touched it, fingers coming back smeared with crimson. His breath froze in his throat.
Blood.
Slowly, dreadfully, he lifted his gaze upward.
With a horrific, wet impact, a grotesque mass slammed onto the path directly in front of him. His men—crushed together in a twisted, mangled heap. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles, faces frozen in wide-eyed terror, mouths gaping in silent screams.
The metallic scent of blood choked him.
For the first time in decades, fear clawed viciously at him.
Then he felt it—the unmistakable sensation of someone behind him.
He spun around, heart hammering wildly, and there she stood—a slender elven woman, her amber eyes blazing with malice. In her hand, she held a blackened bow streaked with veins of glowing ember. Her long, bleach-blond hair was braided tightly behind her.
"Remember me, Clegane?"
He stared blankly, recognition failing him.
Her lips curled into a bitter snarl. "No? Because I sure as hell remember you. More importantly, I remember what you told me ten years ago." She took a step forward, flames flickering along her bow.
"The strong survive, and the weak perish. Weaklings can whine all day about injustice, but in this damned city, might makes right. Your words, not mine."
Instinctively, Clegane stepped back, nearly slipping on the expanding pool of blood.
His jaw tightened. "You're one of them, aren't you?" He reached toward his sword's hilt. "Nemesis."
The girl tilted her head, unimpressed. "Good. Glad to see there's still something between those ears of yours."
Before his hand could even touch his weapon, she'd already moved. Her bowstring snapped viciously, and a blackened arrow buried itself deep into his thigh.
Pain exploded through his leg. Clegane roared, dropping to one knee, his vision blurred with rage and agony as he stared at the weapon lodged in his flesh, the arrow pulsing with searing heat.
"You bitch!" he spat through clenched teeth.
She paused. "If you can't remember my face, maybe you'll remember a name."
Silence stretched painfully between them.
"Arno Sinclair."
Recognition slammed into him, stealing his breath.
"You arrested him," she continued mercilessly, each word stabbing deeper. "Framed him. Forged evidence." Her fingers tightened around her bowstring. "And sent him to the gallows."
"I was there," the girl spat. "I've replayed it every night for ten long years. The pull of the lever, the snap of the rope, the last smile he ever gave me...stolen by you." Her voice shook slightly, rage mingling with grief. "You took everything from me."
Clegane forced a twisted smirk through his pain. "Yeah...now I remember him. That stubborn little peck who wouldn't crack, no matter how many nails we ripped out or how many irons we burned him with."
Isha didn't move, didn't flinch. But the fire pulsing through her bow burned hotter, the air growing thick with heat.
Clegane saw the shift in her expression and sneered, leaning forward with a cruel glint in his eyes. "You know what finally broke the bastard?" His lips curled into a vicious grin. "When we threatened to hurt his—"
He stopped abruptly. The smirk slipped from his face, replaced by a dawning horror as realization hit him like a hammer. His breath stalled in his throat. His crimson eyes widened in shock.
"Sister..."
The bowstring tightened, creaking under the pressure as Isha drew it back, the arrow materializing in a swirl of smoke and embers.
"Remember me now?" she said coldly.
The tip of the arrow ignited. The flames danced ominously, reflected clearly in Clegane's terrified stare.
"The name's Isha Sinclair," she said. "And tonight's the night you die, Clegane."
****
The street exploded into chaos.
Flamed arrows sliced through the air in a furious storm, aimed straight at Clegane. He swung his greatsword in frantic arcs, steel flashing desperately as he tried to deflect the deadly barrage. But Isha was relentless, moving like smoke, darting effortlessly between shadows. She scaled walls, flipped through the air, firing arrow after arrow, each blazing with searing fire.
Clegane roared, trying to fend off the onslaught, but there were too many. Arrows pierced his defenses, embedding deep into his arms, legs, torso—each strike a fiery lance of pain. Crimson stained his uniform as agony ripped through his body. With a desperate snarl, he lunged forward, swinging his massive sword in a brutal arc.
Isha sprang backward, narrowly evading the blade as it shattered the cobblestones where she'd stood just moments before.
"How?!" Clegane shouted, breath labored and heavy, his eyes wild with disbelief. "You were in a damn wheelchair! You had one foot in the grave! How the hell are you here?!"
Isha didn't respond at first. Instead, she calmly drew another arrow, lighting it aflame before sending it streaking toward him. It grazed his arm, searing flesh and forcing him back with a hiss of pain.
"Because," she growled, eyes ablaze with raw fury, "I swore I wouldn't leave this world—not for heaven or hell—until I dragged every last one of you Clock Tower bastards down into the dark with me!"
"Corrupt magistrates. Dishonest adjudicators." The embers from her bow cast flickering light across her face, highlighting the cold determination in her eyes. "Bloodthirsty guards. You call yourselves men of the law, arbiters of justice. But there are no saints among you—only monsters."
Her grip on the bow tightened. "For years, I studied your faces. I memorized your names, learned about your families. Every little joy that made your miserable lives bearable."
Clegane glared, teeth bared in a mixture of pain and rage.
Isha's gaze shifted briefly to the gruesome pile of bodies behind him. "Seeing someone take away everything you love, everything you ever had...hurts, doesn't it?" Her amber eyes locked onto him. "Feeling helpless, knowing there's nothing you can do to stop it."
She then took a sharp, steadying breath, her expression cold. "I always knew I wasn't going to live long. My illness made sure of that. But Arno kept me going. Even after our parents passed, he was my reason to keep fighting."
"My brother was kind. Gentle. He never would've hurt anyone. But you needed a scapegoat, didn't you? You needed someone easy, someone innocent. You stole him from me. You ripped him out of this world."
"Oh, spare me the sob story," Clegane scoffed. "It's always the same with weaklings like you. Boo-hoo—I lost my family. I lost everything and everyone I cared about. Cry me a damn river."
"He's the truth girl." His smirk deepened cruelly. "If the gods didn't want 'em sheared, they shouldn't have made 'em sheep."
Isha's expression darkened, a fury simmering just beneath the surface.
"The weak exist solely to serve the strong—to crawl at our feet, begging for mercy," Clegane sneered. "And those who can't, or won't, learn their place? They're nothing but garbage, and we dispose of garbage. Garbage like your brother."
He straightened, contempt blazing in his eyes. "You think you can beat me just because you learned a few half-assed tricks?" Clegane slammed a fist against his chest. "I am Captain Clegane—the Ogre of AEGIS! I've put more men in the ground than every undertaker in Avalon combined. I've filled graveyards with the broken and the bloodied, the weak and the worthless!"
His grip tightened on his massive sword, knuckles white. "I am the beginning. I am the end. I decide who lives and who dies!"
With a furious roar, he lunged, his expression twisted with rage. "And you'll never hold that power over me!"
Arrows shot from Isha's bow in rapid succession, embedding deeply into his chest and shoulders, yet Clegane hardly slowed, swinging his enormous blade with terrifying force.
Isha moved swiftly—but not fast enough.
With a triumphant roar, Clegane swung his massive sword upward in a vicious arc, cleaving through Isha's right arm and severing it clean at the shoulder.
The impact jolted her body, yet she remained eerily silent—no scream, not even a gasp. Dark, inky liquid splashed across the pavement, her severed arm landing heavily with a dull thud, the bow still clenched tightly in its grip.
Clegane laughed, booming and cruel. "Let's see you finish me now! Just like your brother—weak and pathetic!"
But then Isha spoke, her voice bored, almost dismissive.
"You done?"
Clegane's laughter faded, replaced by wary confusion.
She raised the bloody stump, observing the wound casually. "This little scratch—" she tilted her head with indifference "—is that your idea of victory?"
His smirk vanished completely as something impossible began to occur.
The bleeding stopped abruptly.
Blackened bone erupted from the wound, twisting outward and weaving itself into shape. Muscle fibers knitted together in coils of smoky tendrils, quickly reforming the arm. The torn sleeve stitched itself back together from shadowy wisps and smoldering embers.
Clegane staggered back, eyes wide with terror, as Isha calmly flexed her newly formed fingers. The dark bow reappeared instantly in her grip.
She smiled coldly.
Clegane's arrogant smirk dissolved into raw fear. He gasped sharply, his massive frame tensing as he stumbled back, eyes wide.
"So, it's true—all of it," he muttered. "The murders, the Stornoway incident…that damned Sword. You crazy little peck. You actually sold your soul to Nemesis."
"You're damn right I did!" Isha spat. "After you stole Arno from me, I begged every god I knew for justice—for vengeance. I crawled until my knees bled, until my hands were raw, fingernails cracked and torn from clawing up the temple stones. I pressed my forehead to their cold floors, pleading day after endless day."
She turned away sharply, jaw tight. "But they gave me nothing—nothing but silence. They watched me suffer, savoring every bit of my pain." Her amber eyes burned with defiant rage. "Every god ignored me. All but one, and she offered something else—a chance. A chance to finally set the wrong things right."
Isha amber eyes glittered with deadly promise.
"I told you before—my life was meaningless. Small. Insignificant." Her words were thick with grief, heavy with raw bitterness. "Most days, I could barely lift my head, let alone stand. Every breath I took, every second I spent alive—it was suffering, plain and simple."
"I begged him. Over and over, I begged Arno to leave me behind, to save himself—but he wouldn't. Every night, I pleaded with him to walk away, to start over somewhere else, to live for himself. He stayed in that cursed city because of me, breaking his body, starving himself day after day, just to keep a roof over our heads and buy his dying sister one more breath."
"It should've been me on that noose," Isha said sharply. "He deserved to live—to start fresh someplace far away. Find love, build a family, have the life he always dreamed about. I wouldn't have blamed him. Hell, I would've been happy just watching him from beyond."
"But Arno—my dear brother—he wouldn't abandon me. Not for all the Platas in Avalon, and it cost him everything. Because of that, I'd sooner be torn apart by wolves while you and your kind still walk free. While you laugh over the lives you've ruined, parading them like trophies."
Her gaze darkened, her words steady and cold. "But that ends now. You will know fear. You will know pain. You will know suffering. And you will beg for mercy that will never come." Her grip on the bow tightened. "And if I am destined to walk the shadows of oblivion for all eternity—so be it."
A smirk ghosted across her lips.
"I know you never spared me a second thought—wrapped in the comfort of your own arrogance, convinced that consequence is just a myth for a man like you." Her head tilted slightly, something dark flickering in her gaze. "Because I still remember the last thing you said."
She drew her bow in a smooth, practiced motion, the arrow wisping into existence in a swirl of smoke, igniting the moment it touched the string. Flames curled hungrily around its tip, casting flickering light across her face.
"She's just a sick little peck. What can she possibly do?"
Isha's smile widened, amusement sharpening into something cruel. "How those words must taste now." Her amber eyes glinted. "Tell me, oh great Ogre of AEGIS…" Another tilt of her head, deliberate, mocking. "Who's the sheep now?"
Clegane's face twisted with fury, the rage boiling over. With a roar that rattled the very air, he surged forward, greatsword raised high, its weight primed to cleave her in two.
Isha loosed the arrow. Clegane batted it aside with a sharp swing of his blade—but she didn't flinch.
She simply lifted a hand—then snapped her fingers.
The ground beneath them darkened, splitting apart in a jagged, yawning void. From its depths, blackened chains erupted, shrieking as they tore free, their rattling like the whispers of the damned. Jagged hooks gleamed at their ends, striking with ruthless precision, sinking deep into Clegane's flesh.
He howled, the sound raw and guttural.
The chains coiled around his limbs, tightening like starving serpents. With a violent yank, they wrenched him backward. His greatsword slipped from his grasp, crashing to the ground as his massive frame was hoisted into the air. Limbs stretched, body twisting, he hung like a grotesque marionette, the hooks burrowing deeper, sinking past skin and muscle, pulling, tearing.
"Coward!" he snarled, thrashing against the restraints. "Release me, you damned whore, I'll—"
Isha lifted her hand. The chains pulled tighter.
Clegane's roar turned into a scream.
"Listen well, Captain Clegane," Isha said. "This is how it's going to play out. In your final moments, you'll start searching for the right words. And until you find them, I will tear you apart. Limb from limb. Flesh from bone. Every fiber of your being—until there is nothing left."
Her fingers twitched. The chains rattled in answer, the hooks digging in just a little deeper.
"What you did to Arno, to all the others you've tortured and maimed—I want you to feel it. Every bit of it."
Clegane bared his jagged, shark-like teeth, his body twisting against the chains. Every movement only drove the hooks deeper, tearing into muscle and sinew.
"So, if I were you," Isha said, almost casual, "I'd start searching." Her gaze darkened. "For those magic words. The ones that might make me forgive you for what you've done." She leaned in slightly. "For existing at all."
Clegane thrashed. "You mangy little peck—"
Isha snapped her fingers.
The hook buried in his right arm jerked violently.
Clegane's scream tore through the night, raw and ragged. Flesh stretched, ligaments snapped, blood poured freely as the limb wrenched free. It hit the cobblestones with a wet, sickening thud.
Gasping, he sagged against the chains, his breath shuddering, face twisted in agony. "Y-you… how dare you!" His voice wavered, but fury still burned beneath the pain. "How dare you do this to a Captain of AEGIS! The Tower will rain holy hell upon you and your little friends! They'll—"
"Yap, yap, yap," Isha interrupted, rolling her eyes. "It's always the same with weaklings like you, isn't it?"
Clegane's eyes widened.
"You can spit every vile curse, every meaningless threat, every empty promise—but none of it matters." Her gaze leveled, unwavering. "Because right now, you can't stop me. Right now, I'm stronger than you, which means I can do whatever the Hell I want." She watched as the horror bled into his expression.. "Isn't that how this works?"
"You blasted piece of—" Clegane spat blood, his snarl weak, his fury tangled with fear. "I swear, when I get loose, I'll—"
Isha sighed. "Wrong again."
She snapped her fingers again.
The chains responded instantly.
Clegane barely had time to scream before his left leg was torn from his body.
****
For what felt like an eternity, Isha stood motionless, staring at the ruin of Captain Clegane. He hung from his remaining arm, his once-imposing frame reduced to little more than torn flesh and shattered bone. His legs were gone. His right arm ripped from its socket. Strips of flesh had been carved from his torso, leaving deep, ragged wounds that wept crimson. His breath came in wet, shuddering gasps, blood dribbling from his lips, staining his chin.
"Did you find the words?" Isha asked.
With a flick of her wrist, the chains groaned, tightening, dragging him closer. His ruined face hovered inches from hers.
"Why aren't you saying anything?" she asked. "This isn't even half of what you did to my brother."
Clegane shuddered, his body twitching weakly, the mighty captain reduced to a trembling husk.
Isha's face twisted. She grabbed his collar, her fingers digging into the blood-soaked fabric. "Don't you dare go silent on me now, you bastard!" she snarled. "I told you to find the words. This can't be it. This can't be the end of the great Ogre of AEGIS!"
"Where's the monster I spent ten years hating?!" She yanked him forward, her grip tightening. "What are the words, Clegane?!"
The captain coughed, a thick glob of blood splattering onto the ground. His eyes—once filled with arrogance, with cruelty—held only fear.
His lips trembled.
"E-end it…" he rasped. "Please…"
Isha's breath caught. For a long moment, she simply stared at him. Then, she exhaled slowly.
The hooks withdrew, slithering free from his flesh as the chains retreated into the darkness. With nothing holding him up, Clegane crumpled to the ground in a heap, crying out as his battered body hit the blood-streaked road beneath him.
She turned away, the blackened bow in her hand flickering into smoke and embers as she began to walk.
Behind her, Clegane lifted his head, a twisted smirk creeping onto his bruised and bloodied face.
"I knew it," he rasped. "Even after all that, you ain't got what it takes," he sneered. "You ain't got the gall to finish it. Like I said… weak."
Isha stopped.
"You misunderstand, Clegane." She didn't turn around, but he could hear the quiet amusement in her voice. "The only reason you're still breathing isn't because of my lack of will." Slowly, she looked over her shoulder, her amber eyes gleaming. "It's because I know there are worse things than death."
A shadow stretched behind him.
Clegane's smirk faded as an eerie chill swept over the street. A low, guttural whisper curled through the air, a sound not meant for mortal ears. His body tensed. Slowly, dread coiling in his gut, he turned his head.
A blackened portal had materialized behind him, yawning open like a doorway to something far worse than oblivion.
Then came the hands.
They clawed their way out of the void—dozens of them, black as soot, their veins pulsing with molten amber. Their fingers twitched and curled, grasping hungrily at the air before slithering toward him.
Clegane's breath hitched. "Wait… wait!" he cried out. "W-what is this?!"
"I've seen it," Isha said, watching impassively as the hands slithered closer. "I've seen what's on the other side. What awaits you and everyone else in the Tower." Her gaze sharpened. "Everything you've done. All the pain you've caused." She tilted her head. "It'll be repaid in full. Tenfold."
The first set of hands latched onto his torso.
Clegane thrashed, his screams ripping through the night. "No! Stop!" He clawed at the ground, nails scraping against stone as more hands wrapped around his body, pulling him toward the darkness. "Help me! Somebody help me!" His bravado shattered, reduced to raw, unfiltered terror.
"So long, Captain Clegane." Isha's words were quiet, almost thoughtful. "I'd ask the gods to have mercy on your soul…"
She turned away, her cloak billowing as the embers flickered around her.
"But the gods abandoned you long ago." A faint smirk ghosted her lips. "Just as they did me."
His screams grew more frantic, rising to a fevered pitch as the hands dragged him deeper into the void. More of them wrapped around his arms, his chest, his throat—gripping, pulling, consuming.
The last thing to disappear was his mouth, his final plea swallowed by the abyss.
Then, silence.
The portal sealed shut, leaving only the blood-streaked ground where he had once lain.
Isha lifted her hood over her head. Without another glance back, she vanished into a wisp of blackened smoke and smoldering embers.