The blaring alarm tore Bastion from the depths of sleep. He groaned, pressing his fingers to his temple, already regretting the seventh glass of vodka from the night before. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, the kind that settled behind the eyes and refused to fade.
Blinking against the dim light filtering through his window, his gaze landed on the device strapped to his wrist. It wasn't his alarm after all. The screen pulsed with a flashing call notification, the name Frank glowing in sharp holographic green against the obsidian surface.
With a sluggish sigh, he tapped the display.
"Frank, it's five in the godsdamn morning," he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "We don't punch in till nine."
"Trust me, kid, you're gonna want to get your ass down here. Now."
Something in Frank's tone sliced through the last remnants of fatigue.
Bastion sat up straighter. "What're you on about?"
"It's Clegane." Frank hesitated for a fraction of a second. "They found him and his boys last night." Another pause. "Least… what's left of them."
Bastion froze.
For a heartbeat, all he could hear was the rhythmic pound of his own pulse against his skull. Then, his body jolted into motion. He threw the blanket off, his feet hitting the wooden floor with a sharp smack. The cold bit into his soles, but he barely noticed as he started pacing, his mind racing.
"Clegane? You mean that troll from last night?" His tone was tight. "They're dead?" He stopped mid-step. "Wait—you don't think the brass is trying to pin this on us, do you?"
"I don't know, kid, but word about our little incident at the tavern made it all the way to the top," Frank said grimly. "And you know Clegane was one of Lamar's little lapdogs. He's goanna want answers."
Bastion exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Oh, to hell with that, Frank!" He nearly knocked over the small table in the corner of his cramped room as he spun toward his dresser, yanking open drawers for a shirt. "That bastard and his flying monkeys were breathing when they left. The whole damned tavern can vouch for that."
"They're not accusing us of anything." Frank's voice was steady, but Bastion could hear the edge beneath it. "Yet. They just want answers. You know the drill—same song and dance. I'm in this cesspool right alongside you, and I ain't about to let you drown in it alone. So, get down here, and we'll sort this out together."
Bastion let out a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine, fine. I'll be there in an hour."
"I'll be waiting."
Bastion paused, his fingers tightening around the sleeve of his shirt. His throat felt dry, his stomach coiling with something uneasy. The words felt heavier than they should've, dragging against his tongue.
"And Frank…" His words were quieter this time. "Do you think… you know?"
A silence stretched between them, heavier than before.
Bastion forced himself to say it.
"Nemesis?"
For a long moment, there was nothing but static.
Then, finally, Frank exhaled.
"Maybe."
The call cut out.
Bastion stayed still for a moment, staring at the darkened screen, his pulse thundering beneath his skin. Then, shaking off the weight settling in his chest, he threw on his shirt and reached for his sword.
****
Bastion bolted out the door, his bootsteps hammering against the wooden corridor as he rushed past a row of closed doors. The Crossroads Inn had been his home for the past several weeks, ever since he and Frank were reassigned to Caerleon under their newfound circumstances. It wasn't much, but it was safer than the barracks. His time in Wallace had left him wary of shared quarters—especially when more students had been found with their throats slit in their sleep than any other cause of death.
The inn was modest, just twelve rooms above a small tavern run by a therianthrope couple and their daughter. Cozy, quiet. And, at this ungodly hour, still locked up tight.
As Bastion strode toward the staircase, his greatsword rattled against his back, the weight familiar and reassuring. The iron chandelier overhead flickered with dim amber light, casting shifting shadows across the polished wooden floors. Half a dozen round tables and chairs sat empty, the tavern still closed for the morning. But from the kitchen, the unmistakable scent of slow-cooked stew drifted through the air, making his stomach twist with hunger.
At the bottom of the stairs, he nearly collided with a young woman.
"Oh—sorry, Rem, didn't see you there," Bastion said, rubbing the back of his head.
Rem turned to face him, her jet-black hair cascading past her waist, catching the soft glow of the chandelier's crystal light. Her feline ears twitched, white tufts of fur flickering with the movement, and a sleek, black tail curled idly behind her. Her lime-green eyes, narrow with catlike slits, studied him with mild surprise. She wore her usual work attire—a simple black dress paired with a crisp white apron.
"Morning, Bastion," she greeted, then frowned slightly. "You're out early."
"Yeah, well… something came up at the precinct," Bastion said, adjusting the strap of his sword. "You know how it is—crime never sleeps, and neither does the Tower."
Rem chuckled softly. "Sounds like you need a vacation."
Bastion rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it," he muttered. "Hey, say hi to your mom and dad for me. And don't worry about dinner—I'll probably be back late." He turned toward the door.
"I'll keep it warm for you," Rem called after him.
As the door swung shut behind him, she lingered for a moment, watching him leave. A soft blush colored her cheeks before she shook her head and returned to work.
****
"We've heard enough of your lies, Reinhardt!" Sheriff Hartshorne's voice thundered through the Director's office, rattling the framed certificates and newspaper clippings that lined the oaken walls.
His glare burned hot, finger stabbing through the air as he pointed directly at Bastion. "We know what happened between you and Clegane yesterday at Himmel und Hölle. So, you and Frank might as well come clean!"
Across from him, Bastion and Frank sat in the stiff wooden chairs opposite the Director's large desk. Behind it, Director Lamar Burgess watched them in silence, fingers interlocked, his elbows resting on the polished mahogany surface. His narrowed eyes flickered between them, unreadable.
Bastion leaned back; arms crossed. His own glare matched the Sheriff's. "Firstly, the last time we saw that bloated thug and his lackeys, they were still very much alive," he said coolly. "Secondly—" his eyes flicked toward Hartshorne, sharp with barely restrained irritation, "—he was trying to shake down the place."
His barred his teeth. "And lastly, if you ever call me a liar again, you nutless little bastard, I'll carve a smile so wide across your face you'll—"
He pushed himself halfway out of his seat, the chair screeching against the hardwood floor. Hartshorne flinched back a step.
"Sit. Down." Lamar's words were sharp, carrying the full weight of authority. "Before I have you suspended for insubordination."
Bastion's lips parted as if to argue, but Frank's hand on his arm made him hesitate. With a scoff, he sank back into his chair, though the tension in his shoulders remained.
Frank exhaled. "What's this really about?" He turned his gaze to Lamar. "Face it—you ain't got anything on us, or we'd already be in chains. We've got dozens of witnesses. Three of them are Excalibur professors—one of whom you know exceptionally well."
His eyes flicked toward Hartshorne. "And the three of us go way back. I know when something's got you rattled."
Hartshorne's jaw tightened. "This isn't about us, Frank." His gaze shifted to Bastion, cold and scrutinizing. "This is about you." His eyes narrowed sharply at Bastion. "Especially you. Clegane was a bloody hero within the Tower—his death will send morale straight down the gutter, mark my words."
Bastion scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"You find something funny, boy?" Hartshorne's face twisted in irritation.
"Please," Bastion said, smirking. "Everyone knows the Ogre of AEGIS. Just… not as the hero you seem so eager to praise."
"The man's been caught up in more scandals than half the Tower put together." His gaze darkened slightly, the smirk never leaving his face. "Though probably not as many as you."
Hartshorne's face reddened. "How dare you—"
Bastion leaned forward, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair. "Watch that blood pressure, Sheriff," he said with a slow grin. "Wouldn't want you bursting a vein."
Bastion's gaze shifted to Lamar, his expression hard. "Let's get one thing straight—neither Frank nor I had anything to do with what happened to Captain Clegane. The man's got more enemies than a Niffler's got fleas."
"And let's not kid ourselves," Bastion shot back. "You're not looking for truth—you're looking for saps you can string up by their ball sacks for the whole damned Tower to see. Frank and I are just convenient targets because you're too chicken-shit to admit that a certain group of individuals is out there, crossing off names one by one on your precious little list. A list that's shrinking every damn day."
A muscle twitched in Lamar's jaw. Across from him, the Sheriff's eyebrow gave a near-imperceptible jerk. Tells.
"The kid's a dumbass, sure," Frank muttered, drawing a sideways glare from Bastion. "But he ain't wrong." He turned his gaze to Lamar. "You can keep telling yourself it's all just fairy tales—rumors, stories—doesn't change the fact that it's happening." He exhaled, folding his arms. "And I was there, Lamar. I saw it with my own eyes."
Lamar leaned back, fingers threading together over his lap. "I'd consider my next words very carefully, Agent Reagan."
His gaze flicked toward him, cold, calculating. "Lies are one thing. Delusions are another. And the last thing I need is bedlam in the Tower because of wild tales about some boogeyman with a mythical blade, lopping off heads like a certain horseman from the depths of Hell."
"At least I'm not the one lying to myself." Frank's mustache bristled as his expression darkened. "Here's the thing about delusions, Lamar—just because you refuse to believe in something doesn't make it any less real."
He leaned forward slightly, his stare locking onto the Director's.
"Tell me—how many more of the Tower's own have to die before you finally wake the hell up?"
Lamar's expression darkened, his lips parting as if to speak—but before a single word could escape, the office door swung open.
A uniformed AEGIS guard stood in the doorway, his posture stiff, his face a mix of unease and outright fear.
"What is the meaning of this?" Sheriff Hartshorne snapped, his irritation flaring. "I believe I made it explicitly clear that we were not to be disturbed!"
"Director Burgess, Sheriff Hartshorne," the guard stammered. "I tried to stop her, but—"
Before he could finish, a woman strode past him, moving with the kind of authority that needed no announcement.
Both Bastion and Frank turned their attention to her as Lamar shot up from his chair, all traces of anger draining from his face. Trepidation took its place.
The woman looked to be in her mid-forties, draped in an elegant wizard's robe—less practical, more statement, woven from dark violet satin that shimmered under the room's dim lighting. Her skin was a deep, rich brown, striking in contrast to the thick black hair that coiled atop her head. Her eyes—black as ink and simmering with barely restrained fury—locked onto Lamar with a gaze sharp enough to cut glass.
"Mayor Ramonda," Lamar said. "Had I known you were coming, I would have—"
"Save it, Burgess," the woman cut him off without so much as a glance. Her gaze flicked to Bastion and Frank. "You two—out."
"I beg your pardon, Angela, but these two are still under an inquiry—" Hartshorne interjected.
The mayor turned to him with the slow deliberation of a predator sizing up prey. "I would shut my damned piehole if I were you, George," she said. "They aren't the ones in the doghouse. You are." Her eyes swept between the two men. "Both of you."
She returned her focus to Frank and Bastion. "I'm not going to ask again."
Neither man needed a second warning. They raised their hands in mock surrender before pushing themselves out of their chairs.
As Bastion stepped out of the door, he shot Hartshorne a smirk.
The Sheriff's scowl deepened.
Then the door swung shut, leaving the three of them alone.
****
"Now that we're alone," Angela stepped around the chair with deliberate grace, settling into it with a slow, measured ease. She crossed one leg over the other, her hands folding neatly atop her knee. "Perhaps you fine gentlemen would like to explain what the hell is going on in my city."
"Angela, please, allow me to—"
Lamar barely got the words out before she cut him off with a sharp glare.
"Fifteen years, Lamar." Her words were steady, but the rising heat in it was impossible to ignore. "Fifteen damned years without an armed robbery, let alone a murder—and not just any murder, but the slaughter of AEGIS operatives."
She leaned forward slightly. "Do you have any idea what kind of mayhem will tear through my city the moment this hits the headlines?"
"I understand, Angela, but—"
Sheriff Hartshorne started to speak, only for Angela to whip her gaze onto him like a blade being drawn.
"And you!" She rose from her chair, her presence towering despite her measured posture. "Where the hell were you when this was happening?"
"For too long, this city has been buried under the weight of your incompetence, Sheriff Hartshorne, and I'm starting to believe you've grown a tad too comfortable in your station."
Hartshorne visibly bristled, his lips parting as if to defend himself—but one look at Angela's face told him he'd be better off keeping his mouth shut.
Angela inhaled sharply, the breath cutting through the silence like the edge of a knife. "I know, Lamar." Her words hung in the air, heavy and immovable. "I've heard the stories, and don't even try to deny it, because all that'll do is piss me off further." Her eyes sharpened, dark as storm clouds ready to break.
"I know what's been happening. And more importantly, I know what happened in Stornoway. The murders. The Clock Tower relocating to Caerleon." She tilted her head slightly. "It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together."
Her presence pressed against them like a weight. "So, I'll ask you again, what the hell is going on in my city? What the hell did you bring here?"
Lamar gave a slow, measured shrug. "Angela, you and I have occupied our respective chairs for a very long time," he said evenly. "I've faced down graver threats across Avalon for most of my life. This will be no different." He held her gaze. "You know I run a tight ship. And, most of all, you know me. I give you my word—whatever is happening will be dealt with swiftly and effectively."
Angela let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Forgive me for my lack of faith, but so far, you've given me zero assurances." Her words were razor-edged. "I don't know what you and your little club did to piss these people off so badly and based on the shit you've pulled over the years, I don't want to know."
She leaned in even closer.
"But I've kept these streets clean for a very long time, and I'll be damned if I let you waltz in here and piss all over it. I don't give a rat's ass if you're the Director of the Clock Tower—your shiny little placard doesn't mean shit to me."
Her teeth bared slightly. "So, consider this your one and only warning. Keep your personal garbage out of my city or pack your sorry ass up and crawl back to Camelot where you belong." She tilted her head.
"Frankly, I'd much rather let them hack you and your little pack of sycophants into bite-sized dog treats in King Uther's backyard. That way, he can clean up the mess."
She paused just long enough for her words to settle, then tilted her chin slightly. "Are we clear?"
Lamar didn't respond. His lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.
Angela turned to the Sheriff next. "And you, George," she said, "I'd take a good, hard look at where my loyalties lie." Her gaze pinned him in place. "You are, first and foremost, the Sheriff of Caerleon—long before you're a stooge for the Clock Tower."
"You work for me. Not the Tower. Me." Her gaze locked onto his, unyielding, sharp enough to carve through steel. "And if that's too much for you, then there's the damned door." She flicked her chin toward it, her expression as cold as stone. "Don't let it catch you on the way out."
Her eyes darkened, the weight of her authority pressing down like a vice. "Do we understand each other?"
Hartshorne swallowed hard. "Crystal, madam."
Angela straightened, smoothing her robes. "I suppose we're done here, then." She turned for the door but hesitated just before leaving, casting one final glance over her shoulder.
"And gentlemen," she added, "should you fail this city again, understand that the next time I walk through those doors, I won't be here for a conversation. I'll be coming for everything you hold dear—your careers, your badges, your precious reputations."
Her gaze sharpened, cold as ice. "By the time I'm finished, there won't be a soul left in Avalon who remembers your names without spitting. So, unless you want to watch everything you've built crumble before your eyes, I suggest you get your house in order. Immediately."
With that, she wrenched open the door and strode out, slamming it shut behind her.
****
As soon as the mayor was out of sight and earshot, Hartshorne's face twisted in fury. "That ungrateful, wretched little harlot has forgotten her place," he snarled, his hands curling into fists. "She's long overstayed her welcome—I should've sent her rotting corpse down the river ages ago."
"Calm yourself, George," Lamar said smoothly, turning toward his companion with a measured look. "Like it or not, she is the Mayor of Caerleon. As long as we remain within these walls, her authority trumps even mine—at least when it comes to matters concerning this city."
"And besides, you'd do well to keep those thoughts to yourself. You never know if the walls have ears."
Hartshorne exhaled sharply, forcing himself to steady his breathing. "You're right, Lamar. My apologies." He straightened, then met Lamar's gaze with a grim expression. "But as much as we'd like to keep living in ignorance… we can't deny it anymore."
Lamar's eyes drifted closed for a long moment before reopening.
"Asriel Valerian. Nemesis." His voice was low, like the whisper of a death knell. "The Sword of Damocles."
Hartshorne visibly tensed. "Do you really think it's him?" The words left his lips, but there was hesitation in them. Fear. "The Asriel Valerian? After all these years?"
"I don't know," Lamar admitted. "And even now, I find myself in complete disbelief at what's transpired." He exhaled, leaning back slightly. "A wraith from the underworld, returned to this realm by forces beyond comprehension. It's the sort of madness that would make even the sanest man laugh."
His gaze darkened. "But that Reinhardt boy was right—Clegane is just another name on a very long list. I could've dismissed one or two, chalked them up to unfinished vendettas… but this? This pattern? It's too deliberate. Too precise. I can't deny it anymore."
Hartshorne drew in a sharp breath, his shoulders rigid with tension. "This is bloody disastrous, Lamar. The whole damned affair's thrown a spanner into the works. First that nosy little peck from the Council, then the Pendragons sniffing about—now this."
"Or have you forgotten what we had to do a decade ago? The lines we crossed just to keep our heads attached to our bloody necks? Our friends are dwindling by the hour—dead, missing, or somewhere worse in between. If things carry on as they are, we'll soon find ourselves standing entirely alone."
Hartshorne's eyes narrowed, grimly serious. "Face it, Lamar. We're running out of options."
Lamar's expression remained impeccably composed. "We've still got friends and allies in high places, George," he said smoothly, waving a dismissive hand as though brushing aside a trifling concern.
He leaned back slightly, his confidence unshaken, fingers drumming once against the arm of his chair.
"We've weathered storms far worse than this," he said coolly. "I didn't claw my way into this seat by luck or goodwill. I fought—fought—for the right to call myself Director." He gave the back of the chair a brief, deliberate pat. "And for the power that came with it."
His gaze turned cold, focused. "In the years since, I've laid the foundations that kept the Tower standing. That keep all of us—every last one of us—in a position of strength. Irrefutable. Unshakable. And we've all reaped the rewards, haven't we?"
He shifted his attention to Hartshorne, his tone sharpening.
"Or would you prefer we return to those golden days? When we were little more than drones—clocking in, carrying out orders, and watching the bastards upstairs feast while we scraped the bottom?"
Hartshorne said nothing, but his jaw tensed. He remembered.
Lamar's smile returned—thin, measured, cutting.
"No. I've come too far. Sacrificed too much. These so-called 'setbacks'?" He waved a hand, dismissing them like smoke. "Minor inconveniences. Opportunities, if handled properly."
He stood slowly, pacing to the edge of the desk as he added:
"And once we've put down these avenging phantoms—these ghosts clinging to old grudges—not the Wizard Council, not King Uther, nor his little royal whelp will strip from us what we've earned. Not again."
"The wolves rule, not the sheep." His eyes gleamed beneath the light—steely, resolute. "The Tower belongs to those strong enough to hold it. And I intend to do just that."
****
The Caerleon precinct bustled with frantic activity, a hive of bureaucratic chaos that, despite its elegance, felt a world apart from the disciplined stillness of the Tower in Camelot. Polished marble stairs cascaded downward into the expansive hall, where rows of desks and bustling agents attended to a steady stream of anxious citizens. Voices overlapped, complaints spilling forth about petty theft, missing loved ones, property disputes—every grievance in the city eventually made its way here.
The bitter aroma of coffee hung thickly in the air, mingling with the faint, lingering scent of polished wood and old parchment. Throughout the spacious hall, Guards and Guardians sat hunched over their desks, fingers dancing rapidly across their keyboards. Holographic displays flickered gently in front of their narrowed eyes, bathing their faces in shades of blue and green.
A steady murmur filled the room, punctuated by the rhythmic tap-tap of fingers on keys, quiet voices exchanging hurried updates, and the occasional sigh of frustration. The precinct hummed with purposeful energy, each individual consumed by their own assignments, lost in glowing screens and countless open files.
Bastion descended alongside Frank, his mismatched eyes distant, lost in thought, tracing absent patterns on the gleaming marble beneath his boots. The morning's tension still gnawed at his mind, especially the unsettling images he'd seen—Clegane's men reduced to twisted, macabre sculptures of flesh and bone. Such brutality defied comprehension, something no mere mortal could inflict.
A chill crept along his spine as his thoughts circled relentlessly. Who had the captain wronged so badly to warrant such a fate? And why now? He glanced toward Frank, who walked in brooding silence beside him, mustache bristling slightly in concentration, oblivious to Bastion's gaze.
The older agent wore a guarded expression, eyes forward, deep lines etched into his face. With a quiet sigh, Bastion turned his gaze forward again, his jaw tightening with a mix of resolve and unease. Whatever awaited them in Caerleon, he had a feeling it was only just beginning.
Bastion opened his mouth, ready to speak, but Frank cut him off.
"I know exactly what you're thinking, kid. And no—you ain't got my blessing to go chasing ghosts."
Bastion frowned slightly, glancing sideways. Frank shook his head, lips twitching into a knowing smirk.
"Trust me, I know how your brain works. Hell, it's the first thing I'd do if I were your age." Frank sighed lightly, the edges of his mustache twitching upward. "Unfortunately, these old bones don't bounce back like yours do."
"Believe me, it'll be a cold day in Hell before I mourn the loss of our dear old Captain Clegane," Bastion muttered dryly, folding his arms. "But you're right—something about this just doesn't sit right."
Frank glanced sideways, his mustache twitching thoughtfully. "I get where you're coming from, kid. Nemesis doesn't exactly care who's dirty or clean. Valerian would just as soon butcher everyone and let the gods sort 'em out—assuming he even cares what the gods think to begin with."
They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, Bastion leaning against the wooden handrail. "I skimmed through the Valerian files. Seems pretty straightforward, but something about it bothers me. Why would Director Burgess personally handle a routine homicide case? Even one as messy as this."
Frank glanced sideways, a knowing gleam in his eyes. "You caught that too, huh? At first, I thought it might've been due to the victims being high-profile, especially Keenah Se'lai. He was an Auditor in Internal Affairs—probably knew every skeleton in the Tower's closet."
Frank paused, scanning their surroundings briefly. "But then I did some digging. Turns out Se'lai was investigating something—something big enough to rattle even the top brass."
"You think Lamar's got something to do with this?" Bastion asked, his mismatched eyes sharpening. "With all of this?"
"I'm not accusing anyone outright," Frank said cautiously, his mustache twitching as he glanced away. "But if there's one man in this whole damn organization with something to hide—and everything to lose, it's—"
Bastion's gaze suddenly snapped sideways, instincts screaming a warning mere moments before danger arrived. He lunged, shoving Frank roughly. The older agent stumbled backward just as the deafening roar of a mechanical blade filled the precinct.
A vicious weapon—half sword, half chainsaw—slammed down between them, biting savagely into the polished marble floor, splitting the stone with a bone-jarring crunch. Both men jerked their heads toward the attacker: a young woman, no older than Bastion himself. Her knuckles whitened around the grip of the chainsword, auburn hair wild around her shoulders, her eyes narrowed into furious slits as she bared her teeth.
"Astrea?!" Bastion shouted. "What the hell are you doing?!"
Without answering, Astrea revved the monstrous weapon again. The chainsword screamed to life as she swung, aiming straight for Bastion's throat. He ducked swiftly, the blade ripping through a marble pillar behind him, sending chunks of stone crashing to the floor. She lunged forward, relentless, blade spinning in a lethal blur.
Bastion leapt backward, heart pounding, drawing his greatsword just in time to meet Astrea's next strike. Steel ground against whirring steel, sending a cascade of sparks raining onto the floor as they locked weapons, struggling face-to-face.
"You murderer!" Astrea snarled, tears of rage and grief blazing in her eyes. "You killed Captain Clegane—I'll tear you apart!"