Both Godric and Jeanne had long since lost count of the turns they'd taken, the alleys they'd ducked through, or the roads they'd fled down. Their boots slapped the cracked pavement, lungs burning, limbs screaming with exhaustion. Around them, the city of Caerleon groaned beneath the weight of chaos. Smoke curled from shattered windows; the cries of the wounded echoed between brick walls. The shriek of spells, the crackle of fire, and the roar of distant engines composed a war-torn symphony that never ceased.
But their mission was singular—protect the students.
They'd gathered more as they ran: frightened First Years, bloodied Prefects, wide-eyed refugees from every house. The group now numbered eight. A trembling herd of young witches and wizards. Different robes, different lineages, but one unifying expression carved across their faces: fear. Some clutched their arms, others limped, but all carried invisible wounds that no potion could heal. Their time at Excalibur, if they even returned, would never be the same.
Godric led them into an alley half-choked with refuse. The stench of rot and sour metal clawed at their nostrils, but it was shelter. Shelter from the eyes of Norsefire. Shelter from death.
For a brief moment, there was stillness. Godric's breath came ragged, his chest heaving beneath the weight of his coat. His crimson eyes, bloodshot and wild, scanned the group. Relief battled tension in his gut, until they landed on her.
Jeanne.
She stood apart, watching over the others with that same damned look in her eyes—that look of noble defiance, of duty untamed by logic. And in that moment, something inside him snapped. His boots struck the ground in heavy strides as he approached, closing the distance before she could speak. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with enough force to make her stumble.
"Godric!" Jeanne gasped, trying to twist free. "What are you—?"
But he didn't answer. He dragged her a short distance away from the others, his grip firm, his silence louder than a scream.
Only once they were alone did she manage to wrench herself free, yanking her arm back with a glare. "Unhand me!" she spat, amethyst eyes flashing with fury.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he snapped, slapping the side of his head in disbelief. "Have you completely lost it? Were you trying to get yourself killed out there?"
"I don't owe you an explanation," Jeanne shot back. "There were people in danger. I acted."
Godric threw his hands up. "Oh, brilliant! Did you have some kind of divine protection I wasn't aware of? Thought maybe the heavens would part and save your ass when those bastards moved in?" He raked his fingers through his hair. "Blimey, you're unbelievable. Charging in without a plan, like some reckless martyr—"
"I'm not trying to be a martyr, but I won't stand by while innocent people suffer!" Jeanne shouted. "I act because I must. Not because it's safe. Not because it's smart. But because it's right."
Godric stopped.
"I do what I do not just because I can… but because it's my duty," she continued. "And from everything I've heard, once upon a time, you weren't so different yourself."
Silence followed—tense and suffocating.
Godric's jaw locked, his crimson eyes falling to the ground. For the briefest second, there was no fire in him. Only pain. And maybe a flicker of something else.
"To the Congregation, to Excalibur, to the students and even the slaves—you were more than a boy. More than the Lion of Ignis," Jeanne said, her words gentler now, stripped of anger and filled with quiet conviction.
"That duel in the Excalibur clock tower. When you faced the Calishans. You gave people something they hadn't had in a long time. You showed them they didn't have to cower. That evil only wins when good men choose silence."
She stepped closer, slowly, like one approaching a wounded animal. Her fingers pressed gently against his chest, feeling the tight breath beneath. "You didn't just fight," she continued. "You made them believe. You gave them more than courage. You gave them hope. Especially Raine."
She looked up into his face. "To them… to her… you were a hero."
There was a stillness between them. Heavy. Fragile.
"…Not anymore," Godric murmured. The words spilled from his lips like ash. Soft, broken, and hollow.
Jeanne's hand fell away, her eyes dimming with sorrow. But before she could speak, Godric's eyes flashed wide. In one swift motion, he grabbed her and pulled her tight against his chest. A sickening whoosh of wind—the shriek of metal—and a baton slammed down through the air, missing her skull by an inch.
Godric twisted. Teeth bared. In the same breath, his hand went to his back—his blade drawn in a silver flash.
Steel sang.
The guard's scream tore through the alley as his hand was severed clean at the wrist. Blood spurted in violent arcs as he stumbled back, shrieking in agony. Godric turned his wrist, reversed his grip, and in one fluid motion slashed the man across the chest. The guard crumpled, blood soaking through his armor as he hit the ground.
Godric exhaled sharply, releasing Jeanne as he turned his blade outward once more. His crimson eyes scanned the alley.
"We have to move," he said. "Now!"
Jeanne nodded and turned to the students, already on their feet, trembling but ready. Together, they bolted out of the alley—only to stop dead. A squad of Norsefire guards blocked the street ahead, their uniforms soaked in blood, armor stained and dented from battle. Godric's breath caught in his throat. He stepped forward, placing himself between the guards and the others. His hand clenched tighter around the hilt of his sword, jaw set, eyes narrowed.
Twisted wrecks of metal littered the road. The mangled husks of cars smoldered beneath pillars of black smoke. Blood slicked the cobblestones as the groans of the dying rose beneath the cries of chaos. The students behind him huddled close, wide-eyed and silent.
Then something shrieked through the air. A blur—red steel, wicked and fast—whistled past Godric's ear. It struck the lead guard square in the chest, hurling him backwards like a doll. His body slammed into a truck, impaled against the door. He twitched once, then went still. A heartbeat later, the spear jerked free, snapping back through the air into the hand of its master.
Godric turned. Standing atop a crushed vehicle was a young man, blue-haired and grinning, the crimson spear twirling in his grip with elegant menace. Their eyes met—red on red.
"Well, now," said Cú. "The mighty Lion of Ignis, cornered like a gutter rat. Tragic, really."
Godric blinked. "Cú? What the hell are you doing here?"
The boy scoffed.
"Is that any way to greet a bloody savior, ya ungrateful shite?"
A new voice chimed in from the side.
"Typical," Údar drawled, striding around the wreckage with a crooked smirk. Her coat flared with every step. Her one good eye locked on the Norsefire guards. "We haul our arses into the fire, and the first thing we get is a damned complaint."
Cú dropped from the car roof, landing beside her. His spear hummed with energy, coiled like a viper in his hand.
"The Table called in favors," he added. "Strongest Clans to the front. We came running. Figured things were bad. Didn't expect to find a blasted warzone."
Údar jerked her chin at the students. "Get them back to Excalibur, boyo. Me hounds'll hold the line."
At her signal, a dozen figures emerged from the smoke—students clad in dark emerald jackets, each one bearing the emblem of the Hounds of Cú. Silent. Disciplined. Ready.
Then a familiar voice cut through the din, thick with a Highland rasp.
"Best listen to the maighstir, Gryffindor," said Argus Dunbroch, stepping out of the smoke, his hair as red as ever and grin just as sharp. "Ain't nobody's takin' ye down 'til I've had another go."
Godric stared at him, stunned. Argus tilted his head.
"Don't look so surprised, ye English ponce," he said. "Ye didn't think we'd sit back and let ye have all the fun, did ye?"
"Thank you," Jeanne said to Údar. "From the bottom of my heart."
"Ah now, don't get all weepy on me, lass," Údar replied with a cheeky grin. "But when this is all said an' done, I wouldn't mind a wee kiss from someone as bonny as you." She blew a playful kiss through the air, causing Jeanne's cheeks to flush pink.
Godric stepped up beside Jeanne. "We owe you," he said, offering a firm nod before turning to the students. "Move!" he ordered, and the group broke into a sprint, racing toward Excalibur Castle.
Údar folded her arms, her smirk growing as the low grind of metallic treads echoed down the ruined street. The Warcaster tank rolled into view behind the remaining Norsefire guards, its turret glowing with a deadly charge.
Her eyes fixed on it. "Cú," she called without looking, "ya remember what I said about that bein' off limits?"
Cú cocked an eyebrow. "Word for word."
Her grin sharpened. "Forget I said it. Go ham, ya feckin' gobshite."
Cú's face lit up with wild delight. His stance shifted, feet planting wide as that manic glint returned to his crimson eyes. "With pleasure," he said, lowering his spear like a man about to dance with death.
Údar drew her wand with a flourish. "Now for the rest of ye lot—"
She lifted her wand high. "Scuab na madraí cogaidh!"
"Unleash the hounds of war!"
A thunderous cry erupted from the Hounds of Cú as they surged forward. Emerald jackets flared behind them like banners. Blades glinted, wands crackled, and battle roars split the air as they clashed with the Norsefire line—steel against steel, spell against spell.
Behind them, Cú spun his spear once, then launched into a sprint—straight for the Warcaster.
****
The Norsefire guards fought with ruthless discipline—batons clashing against steel, curses flung from behind cover—but even their precision couldn't withstand the fury of Údar's hounds. Blades cut through enchanted armor with raw force. Blood sprayed across burning wreckage as swords plunged deep into flesh, and gasps of agony escaped the lips of the dying.
Údar fought like a storm let loose. Her wand slashing through the air, each movement wild and untamed. Her magic didn't dance; it roared. Bolts of force and fire erupted from her wand, crashing into the enemy with bone-breaking strength. One guard was hurled clear over a ruined truck; another was blasted into a wall so hard the stone cracked behind him.
"Come on, ya bloody gobshites!" she howled, one eye blazing with battle lust. "Is this the best ye've got?!"
She traced a searing arc through the air with her wand, the tip blazing with fire. Then she drove it down.
"Expulso!"
A violent shockwave burst from the impact point, sending a half-dozen guards flying like ragdolls. Their bodies crumpled on the pavement, twitching or still.
Not far off, Cú had become a blur of crimson death. His spear spun between his hands with impossible speed, carving through flesh and bone. Blood geysered in his wake, the air singing with every slash. He weaved between blows, laughing. His face wild with the rush, his irises narrowed to slits.
Steel met spear, but the baton strikes were pitiful against the strength of his weapon. Cú moved like a predator, and they were prey. Each guard that stepped toward him fell, their eyes wide in disbelief, mouths spilling blood as they collapsed.
Then came the low, dreadful hum.
Cú's head whipped around. The Warcaster's turret had locked onto Údar, its charge building fast.
"Údar—here it comes!" he barked.
Údar snapped her head toward it. The turret fired—a blinding sphere of compressed white energy hurtling toward her.
She stood her ground, smirking. "Protego… Maxima!"
A dome of radiant light sprang up around her. One layer, then another, then another. The blast struck the first with the sound of a thunderclap, shattering it. The second broke like glass, the third cracked like ice underfoot. Each layer dulled the blast, reduced its power. By the time the final veil flickered out, Údar lifted her wand again and flicked the last of the energy into nothingness.
She panted, hair singed at the edges, face streaked with soot and sweat. Her eye turned to Cú.
"Finish it!" she roared.
All turned to him.
Cú lowered his stance. The spear in his hand began to glow—crimson light burning from its edge like fire on steel. The air around him shifted, warping from the sheer pressure of the magic. Crimson lightning spiraled around his body, coiling and snapping.
He exhaled slowly, like a bowstring being drawn taut.
Then he moved.
He dashed, his feet shattering the asphalt beneath him as he slid, twisted, and vaulted into the air. For a moment he hung above the battlefield like a falling star.
"Sharpen your teeth and strike the heavens!" He drew back his arm. "Gáe." His muscles coiled tight "Bolg!" and hurled the spear with all his might.
The name echoed like a curse. The mid-day sky lit red.
The spear shot through the air like a comet, trailing a burning wake. Windows shattered for blocks around. The Warcaster had no time to react. The weapon struck dead center.
The tank exploded.
A deafening blast rocked the street. Shrapnel flew in every direction—twisted metal and scorched plates scattering across buildings and pavement. Fire roared high into the sky. The crater left behind was scorched black.
Cú landed cleanly, one knee to the ground. His hand opened, and the spear zipped back through the smoke into his waiting grip. He rose, twirled it once with a sharp thrumm, and let the point rest at his side.
Before him, the battlefield had gone quiet.
The remaining Norsefire guards stared, paralyzed. Eyes wide, faces pale as the firelight of the destroyed Warcaster flickered across their expressions. The tank, their supposed trump card, now lay in molten ruin. Smoke curled from its twisted chassis, and the stink of oil, shattered crystal and scorched metal filled the air.
They turned slowly, as if afraid to even breathe too loudly.
There stood Cú, calm as a storm's eye, his crimson spear resting lazily against his shoulder. Beside him strode Údar, her hair billowing in the wind, one eye glinting with cold satisfaction. Behind them, her hounds stood shoulder to shoulder—bloodied, battered, but unbowed. A line of vengeance carved into flesh and steel.
Údar spread her arms wide, a grin tugging at her lips.
"I want you pox-riddled feckers to remember this moment," she called out. "Remember what it looks like when you're outmatched. 'Cause make no mistake—ye don't have shite on Excalibur, and ye sure as Hell don't have shite on us."
Her wand snapped into her grip, the tip glowing faintly with heat. Her gaze narrowed.
"We're the hunters now," she said, low and lethal. "And you lot? Yer just meat, waitin' to be torn apart by me hounds."
That broke them.
Panic took hold. Their courage shattered. One by one their weapons clattered to the ground. Swords, wands, truncheons—and they turned, stumbling over each other as they fled into the smoke, screams and footfalls fading fast down blood-slicked streets.
Cú tilted his head toward Údar. "You know that's not the end of them, right?"
Údar grinned, fire in her gaze. "Oh, I'd be mortally offended if it were."
She turned to her men, raising a fist high.
"Come on, lads! The hunt's just begun!"
With a war cry, the Hounds surged forward behind her—wolves chasing the scent of blood and tyranny.
Cú chuckled, shaking his head as he followed. "Damn madwoman," he muttered fondly, his grin mirroring hers.
****
Jeanne and Godric slipped through the grand doors of Excalibur, their shoulders hunched, breaths ragged and uneven. The students they'd rescued filed in behind them, some limping, others leaning on one another, but all wore the same look of dazed relief—as though they'd just clawed their way back from the edge of death.
Godric wiped a sleeve across his brow, pushing sweat and grime from his face. His crimson eyes scanned the foyer at the foot of the Grand Staircase. Bodies still strewn across the floor—students too wounded to move, some groaning softly as the Hospital Wing staff worked to stabilize them.
He half-expected Professor Serfence's sharp tongue to slice through the stillness, barking out his usual brand of scorn and sarcasm. Or Professor Workner's concerned mutter, or Ryan's casual drawl asking what kind of mess they'd dragged in this time.
But none of them were there. Just quiet, broken only by the shuffling of feet and the low murmur of healers. Godric exhaled. He didn't know how long the quiet would last, but for now, he let it settle around him. His gaze found Jeanne. She stood a few steps away, chest rising and falling, her face damp with sweat, but smiling. When their eyes met, he opened his mouth to say something.
But then he felt arms wrap around him. Two of the girls they had saved flung themselves at him in a tight embrace, clutching his robe like lifelines. The third girl had her arms wrapped around Jeanne, her face buried against her chest.
"Thank you," one of them whispered, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Heaven knows what would've happened if you hadn't come."
"It's true what they say," the other murmured. "About the Lion of Ignis."
They held on a moment longer before slowly letting go. The girl clinging to Jeanne gave her a gentle squeeze before stepping back. All three of them offered grateful smiles and soft waves before disappearing down the corridor—toward the dormitories, toward safety.
Godric stood there, still and quiet. His expression softened. For a moment, just a flicker, the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile.
"It's nostalgic, isn't it?" Jeanne said as she walked up beside him, hands folded behind her back. "That feeling. Risking everything for just a sliver of light. To be the hero you once were… and maybe still are."
Godric didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on the floor.
"Anyway," she added, eyes meeting his, "I don't believe I've thanked you yet." Her voice lowered, more sincere now. "So, thank you, Godric. For saving me. More than once."
A soft smile tugged at Godric's lips—but before he could say a word, a sudden blur of motion tackled him to the ground with a startled yelp.
"Godric!" Helga cried, landing squarely atop him. "Thank the Gods you're alright! Rowena and I were looking everywhere for you!"
She scrambled back to her feet and hauled him up with effortless strength. Godric groaned as he straightened, a few bones popping in protest. "Yeah, I'm alright, Helga," he muttered, rubbing his back.
His gaze flicked to Jeanne. "We both are."
"Godric. Jeanne."
They turned at the sound of Rowena striding toward them with a noticeable urgency. Her sapphire eyes shimmered with relief.
"Thank Hecate you're safe," she said breathlessly. "Caerleon's turned into an absolute disaster."
"Disaster's putting it lightly," Helga huffed, crossing her arms and casting a sideways glance at her friend. "You really need to stop pulling stunts like that, Row. If I hadn't found you last night, you'd be rotting in a Norsefire cell right now."
"Wait—what happened last night?" Godric asked, brows furrowing.
Rowena's expression faltered. Her eyes darkened with something heavier than regret—guilt. "Let's just say… I had a chat with my former uncle." Her jaw tightened. "Lamar Burgess. The man is vile. This escalation? The lockdown, the arrests—it's all him. And it's my fault. I pushed him. I provoked him." She turned away, arms hugging herself. "He's doing this to punish me."
"No, Rowena," Jeanne said gently. "This isn't on you. Whatever he's doing. Whatever he chooses to do—it's on him. You confronted him, and now he's showing the world exactly who he is."
"We saw the Visionaries out there," she added. "And the Hounds of Cú. They're fighting back, holding the line."
"I'm not as tight with the Congregation as Salazar is," Helga said, "but word is the High Table's called in every strong clan they could. They're pushing back against Norsefire across the city."
Godric's eyes narrowed. "Speaking of Salazar… where is he? He wasn't in his room at the Hospital Wing, and no one's seen him since morning."
"It's chaos out there," Rowena said. She hesitated, then met Godric's eyes. "They took Helena, Godric—right off the street while we were shopping. Salazar didn't wait. He's already gone after her."
"Alone?" Godric's fists clenched. "Blimey. That stubborn, reckless—" He spun around. "I'm going after him."
"Godric, wait." Jeanne reached out, her hand resting on his shoulder. "You just got back. You're exhausted."
"And if I know Sal," Helga added with a wry grin, "he's not going down without turning half the city upside down first. He can handle himself."
"But—" Godric started, but Rowena raised a hand, cutting him off.
"Jeanne and Helga are right," she said firmly. "Look at you—you're drenched in sweat, barely standing, and I don't need to be a Seer to know you tapped into Vis Vitalis again."
Godric opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She was right, and he knew it.
"You've grown stronger, Godric Gryffindor. No one's denying that," Rowena continued. "But that kind of magic—it's raw, unstable, and you're still learning to wield it. The more you push without restraint, the more you tempt something to break. And if it does…" She hesitated. "You'll end up just like Volg."
His eyes narrowed. "I know my limits, Rowena. You don't have to lecture me."
"Do you?" she shot back. "Or is that just the lie you tell yourself to justify the risk?" She turned, gesturing toward the injured students scattered across the hall. "I'm not saying stop using it—but you need to rest. Recover. Because if you collapse in the next fight…" Her gaze returned to him. "You'll be just another body someone else has to carry."
Godric fell silent, Rowena's words hanging over him like a weight he couldn't shrug off.
Then, without warning, Helga looped her arm around his. "Come on," she said, nudging him with a grin. "It's been a long day, and it's nearly tea. I heard Chef Gusteau whipped up a fresh batch of éclairs. And like Pop-Pop Hufflepuff always said, nothing soothes a soul faster than sweets."
Before he could object, she was already pulling him toward the Great Hall, his feet stumbling after her. Jeanne stifled a laugh as she trailed behind. "Or was that something I always said?" Helga added, feigning innocence.
Rowena shook her head with a soft smile, watching them disappear through the doorway. But just as she took a step to follow, a faint beeping buzzed from her coat pocket.
Her smile vanished.
She glanced around, quick and cautious, before slipping into a side corridor cloaked in shadow. Whatever it was—it wasn't meant for public ears.
****
Rowena slipped deeper into the corridor, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone. When she was certain no one was near, she reached into her coat and tapped the communication orb. It lifted from her palm, floating in the air before her, glowing faintly. A green screen flickered to life—then stabilized.
Her sapphire eyes widened.
"Is this infernal thing working?" Bran muttered, his image flickering slightly as he fumbled with the device. "By the Gods, what sort of cobbled-together contraption is this—?"
"Hey, bite me, four-eyes," Laxus' voice came from off-screen. "Let's see you rig a comm system using spare parts and a flask of enchanted rum."
"Hush," Bran snapped. "I think she can hear us." He leaned in, face slightly blurred from proximity. "Rowena? Are you receiving?"
Rowena crossed her arms. "Loud and clear, brother. And to think you were so desperate to apologize, you resorted to pirate tech just to get through."
Bran's eyes tightened. "Rowena, now's not the time. Listen to me—you're in danger. It's Uncle Lamar, he's—"
"I know," she cut in flatly.
Bran froze. "You… know?" He blinked, trying to recalibrate. "What do you mean you know?"
"I spoke to him last night," she said, carrying the weight of betrayal. "He's not hiding anymore. Whatever mask he wore—it's gone."
Bran sighed, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Rowena… I'm sorry."
She shook her head. "Don't be. The pretending's over. For both of us."
He slid the glasses back on, jaw firming. "Then I won't sugarcoat it. Lamar is dangerous. He's not just consolidating power—he tried to have me and Laxus murdered."
"What?" Rowena's eyes flared. "Murdered?"
"You should've seen them!" Laxus chimed in off-screen, far too chipper. "Didn't expect the two of us to punch back so hard."
Rowena frowned. "I knew he was unhinged, but why target you?"
"Because we've been digging," Bran said grimly. "And we've found something—something big. If what we suspect is true, it won't just expose Lamar… it'll crack the foundations of the entire Clock Tower."
Rowena's lips parted slightly, the air thick between them.
Bran leaned forward. "And the fact that he's lashing out like this? It means we're close. Too close."
"Unbelievable," Rowena muttered, rubbing her chin as the weight of Bran's revelation settled in. "What in Hecate's name could you possibly have uncovered that's so damning?"
"It's a long story—and we're running out of time," Bran replied. "But Laxus and I have secured a meeting with the Grand Regent in a few days. He's been pursuing his own leads, and together, we believe we'll have enough to finally end this madness."
"Madness?" Rowena's tone sharpened. "That's far too generous a word, Bran. I don't know how much the rest of Avalon's being kept in the dark, but Caerleon isn't just unstable—it's on fire. Norsefire's gone feral. There's no law, no restraint, no decency."
She placed a hand to her chest, her fingers curling. "I saw it. With my own eyes. Guards clubbing unarmed students in the street. Dragging them away to who knows where—like cattle. There's no justice here. Only fear."
Bran's face went pale. "By the Gods… it's worse than we thought."
"Those bastards. If I were there—" Laxus growled in the background.
"We know, Laxus," Bran cut in gently, keeping the mood from boiling over. He looked back at Rowena. "Man's not just putting a boot to Caerleon's neck—he's holding a blade to its throat."
Rowena gave a bitter nod. "We're safe behind these walls for now. Headmaster Blaise and the professors—they'll fight to protect the students. But out there?" Her voice wavered. "There are innocent people. Families. Children. And they're being hunted like animals."
"Rowena," Bran said, "I swear to you, we will finish this. Lamar Burgess and every rotten piece of filth propping him up—they'll all answer for what they've done. The law will come for them, with fury."
He paused. "But until then, promise me something. Don't be reckless. Don't put yourself in danger. Please."
Rowena paused. Then, quietly, she nodded. "I promise."
"Good," Bran said. "Stay put. Stay safe. The moment I find a way into Caerleon, I'll be there—and I'm bringing the whole bloody cavalry with me."
"And a shit-ton of caskets," Laxus barked from off-screen, "for each and every one of those bastard sons of bitches."
Bran exhaled through his nose, then looked back to her. "I love you, Rowena. And more than anything… I'm sorry."
Rowena's brow creased as she met his eyes.
"I was so caught up in the letter of the law, I became its leash," Bran admitted. "Everything I stood for… it feels like a joke now. What good is justice when a monster like Lamar Burgess sits at the top of the very system meant to uphold it?" He paused, jaw tightening. "I failed Godric. I failed Raine. And worst of all… I failed you."
"Bran, don't—" Rowena started, but he lifted a hand.
"That question you asked me… back at the hospital," he said. "Would I have done the same if it were you?" He shook his head. "No. I know it's hypocritical, but I wouldn't have. Not for a moment. If it were you, I'd have stood between you and the Tower itself."
He smiled faintly. "Me. Father. Even Grandfather. We'd have stood with you. Against the world."
A long silence stretched between them before Rowena smiled—small and full of warmth. Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell.
And then:
"Blegh, someone get me a bucket!" came Laxus's loud, exaggerated gagging. "This is worse than a soap opera!"
"Oh, bugger off, you immature clod!" Bran snapped, rolling his eyes.
"Then stop making it weird!" Laxus shot back, laughing.
Bran turned back to the screen, his smile returning. "Take care of yourself, Rowena. I'll see you soon."
The image flickered, then faded into static. The orb dimmed and gently lowered itself into Rowena's palm. She stood in silence, fingers curled around it, as the weight of her brother's words lingered in the quiet corridor.