The veranda rose dozens of floors above the Crown City, an open expanse with a breathtaking view that stretched beyond the horizon. A lush garden framed the polished marble floor, where hedges were trimmed with geometric precision and a kaleidoscope of flowers. Roses, lilies, delphiniums in every shade, breathed their sweetness into the air. At the center, a long table draped in white cloth glittered with an endless parade of delicacies: biscuits, scones, cakes, soufflés, and confections that even Helga had never seen. Within the hour, she had devoured nearly half the offerings, leaving the servants aghast.
Rowena sipped her tea with the air of someone restraining a headache, while Jeanne trailed apologies on Helga's behalf. Salazar, for all his restraint, was enjoying the subtler luxuries of the spread. His plate modest, his taste refined, every sip of tea taken as if it were a ritual. Godric, never one for sweets, leaned on the comfort of strong coffee, dark and bitter. This choice earned him no shortage of teasing, more than one remark that such a drink was better suited to Salazar than to him.
At the head of the table sat King Uther, flanked by Arthur and Artoria. The King had listened keenly as Salazar recounted his duel with the disgraced Sheriff of Caerleon, his narration laced with confidence and embellishment. More than once, Arthur leaned forward, drawn in by the tale, though Artoria's gaze remained cool, unreadable.
"So," Uther rumbled, tapping his teaspoon lightly against the rim of his cup before setting it aside, "the Sheriff was not all bark after all. I recall the Flashing Blade had quite the reputation in his youth. An unyielding force, or so the tales claimed. Perhaps, young Slytherin, you should count yourself fortunate."
Salazar's smirk deepened. "Perhaps, your majesty. Yet with the utmost respect, prime or twilight, it would have made no difference. The outcome was inevitable."
Arthur raised his brows, impressed at Salazar's unabashed confidence, though Artoria's lips barely twitched.
Uther inclined his head, a faint trace of amusement flickering in his eye. He then turned his attention to Helga, raising his cup in her direction just as she bit into a scone, cheeks round as a chipmunk.
"And as for you," he said, "to think you bested the Iron Hands himself. Among mercenaries, the man was spoken of in hushed tones, his strength forged in wars far beyond our shores." He shook his head gravely. "What he did to his village was monstrous. A crime that rests squarely among Burgess' transgressions. By the Gods, such men were a plague upon Avalon."
Helga swallowed the last of her jam-covered pastry, setting the sticky remains back on her plate. Her gaze fell to the white cloth draped across the table, her fingers worrying the edge of it before she finally looked up, amber eyes meeting Uther's sapphire one.
"What… what will happen to him?" she asked quietly. "Geddes, I mean."
Uther leaned back, broad shoulders casting long shadows against the light of the veranda. "Exactly as you would expect," he replied evenly. "His treason against Avalon, and the blood he spilled in its name, would warrant nothing less than the penalty of death."
Helga's eyes widened, though a flicker of sorrow lingered there.
Uther caught it, one brow lifting. "Something troubles you, child?"
Helga exhaled. "It's just… I know what he did can't be excused, not after everything. I know forgiveness doesn't come into it. But when we fought, he didn't seem completely beyond saving. There was something in him, buried deep down. A part of me thinks, if someone reached out, if someone showed him he wasn't the monster he believed himself to be… maybe he could've been better." Her gaze rose back to Uther. "But if you execute him, we'll never know."
Uther's expression darkened with thought. "Are you suggesting I grant him clemency?"
Helga shook her head quickly, waving her hands. "No… no, not like that. I'm not saying set him free, or wipe the slate clean. If you've got to, lock him away. Revel's End would hold him well enough, for as long as you think he deserves. I just…" She hesitated, chewing her lip. "I just think death makes it too easy. Prison means he'd have to live with what he's done."
"A part of me believes true monsters aren't born, they're made," Helga said quietly. Her amber eyes burned with conviction. "We scorn and push people down until anger is all they have left, and then we point at them as proof of their own wickedness, as if we share none of the blame. If more of us chose to reach out with open hands instead of raised fists, there'd be far fewer Geddes in the world."
"If I may, your majesty," Jeanne spoke gently, drawing every eye to her. "I know you do not follow the same faith as I, but where I come from, we are taught that every living soul bears within it the capacity for both great good and great evil." She paused. Her hands folded neatly in her lap. "It is easy to brand someone as cruel, wicked, or unjust when we refuse to ask why they are as they are. The world insists on dividing everything into black and white, and I understand why. It makes the harsh truths easier to bear. But the truth is never that simple."
Her gaze lowered for a moment, thoughtful. "No past, no hardship, can excuse atrocities. Those who commit them still make their choices with open eyes, and they must answer for them. Yet, if we take a flower and bury it in the dark, can we truly be surprised when it withers, never knowing the light? If we wish the world to be better, then we must strive to embody the very change we long to see. That is what my Lord commands of us."
A hush fell across the table. Arthur and Artoria exchanged a glance; even the servants paused. Uther sat motionless for a long beat, the king's pale eye unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled. Soft, almost warm, and shook his head.
"My word," he said at last, the corners of his mouth lifting. "The youth never cease to surprise me. Strong, blunt, and with a conscience to match. You have the makings of a true knight, Miss Hufflepuff and of course Miss D'Arc. I do not say that lightly."
He steepled his fingers and leaned forward, the light catching the hard planes of his face. "Very well. Barton Geddes will not see the executioner's block. He will instead be incarcerated at Revel's End for the remainder of his days, where he may, if anything can, reflect on his crimes."
Helga's breath hitched, relief and something like fear mingling in her expression.
Uther's gaze softened a fraction. "And because you spoke for him, I will have it made known to him that it was you who spared him. Whether that shame becomes repentance or merely another bitter seed is not for me to promise. But perhaps, if shame can be a teacher, this will force him to look in a mirror he's long avoided."
Helga dipped her head, words scarce but sincere. The table remained silent, the gravity of the king's choice settling around them like the last hush before rain.
Uther's gaze slid from Helga to Rowena, then settled on Godric. "That being said," he began, "do any of you expect me to grant the same mercy to Lamar Burgess?"
Rowena set her teacup down without answering. Godric's face went hard; for a long beat he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his words were low and steady.
"Call me cruel if you like," he said, "but there is no force on this earth, not even the Gods themselves, that would make me beg for the man. I had my chance. I chose not to take it, but that does not mean I wish to see him saved."
Rowena's jaw tightened. "And I've said all I need to say of Burgess, Your Majesty," she added.
Uther gave a brief, rueful chuckle. "As expected." He folded his hands on the table. "Regardless, I would not have been able to spare him either, even had you pleaded. Politics is a filthy business," he said, fingers tapping the rim of his cup. "Like chess, every move demands a counter. Intentions, whether noble or vile, do not change consequences. One man's savior is another man's monster. Perception is a force unto itself, and oftentimes the cruelest to master."
He leaned back slightly, the weight of office in his posture. "I have wished, in quieter moments, that I could be like my forebears. To stride out with a blade and make wrongs right with a single stroke. But authority is as much a shackle as it is a sword. It can free, yes, but it can just as easily bind. The crown forces choices on you that a lone heart would never make."
Arthur leaned back slightly, muttering under his breath, "You can most certainly say that again," only to catch the sharp glare of his sister.
Uther set aside his cup, reaching for a biscotti and breaking it cleanly in two. "Which brings us," he said, "to the one who cast the first stone down this dark and treacherous path, Asriel Valerian, and the Sword of Damocles."
The name struck the table into silence. Even Arthur and Artoria sat straighter, their composure touched by the weight of it.
"Yes," Uther continued evenly, "I am well aware of what transpired. The assassinations. The blood-soaked vendettas. And finally, the revelation, a tangled web of deceit that, when unraveled, has shaken Avalon to its very core. Retribution came not from the hands of kings or councils, but through another Burgess marked for slaughter, and a power thought naught but legend." He paused, biting into the biscotti before finishing, "Some fates are too bitter to speak of, and more bitter still are the truths that drive them."
He rested the half-eaten pastry down, his gaze sharp. "Burgess believed us all fools. The Councils. Myself." His jaw tightened. "And in that, I am forced to admit, he was right."
The air grew taut. All eyes fixed upon him.
"I was a fool," Uther said at last. "I chose to put faith in a system riddled with rot, in men who mouthed ideals while grinding Avalon beneath their heels. In my complacency, I allowed wolves to wander my halls and butcher my people. Just as Mayor Romanda did, I too let them feast. That is a mistake I shall no longer make, nor shall I permit it of others."
His gaze lifted, cold steel meeting each of theirs in turn. "You, all of you, even Valerian himself, forced this old king to reckon with the truth. The throne I sit upon is no ornament. The crown I bear is no trinket. They are burdens of blood and consequence."
Finally, his eyes found Jeanne, softening by a fraction. "And you are right, girl. We must change. We must be better. And it begins with us."
Uther set aside his napkin, dabbing once at his lips before rising smoothly to his feet. The scrape of his chair carried across the veranda, and the others began to rise instinctively, only to halt as he raised a hand, wordless but commanding. They sank back into their seats.
A servant approached, bearing in both arms a long wooden case of dark, polished oak, its surface gleaming faintly in the afternoon light. Uther then turned his gaze upon Godric.
"Gryffindor," he said.
Godric stiffened, his crimson eyes widening. He glanced around the table as though to ensure he had heard correctly, then pushed back his chair and stood, walking forward with careful steps until he stood before the king.
With a quiet click, Uther opened the box. Arthur leaned back, a grin tugging at his lips, while Artoria's brow arched in faint surprise. Nestled within velvet of deep lavender was a dagger, no more than fifteen inches in length, its scabbard wrapped in royal blue leather and trimmed with gold. Uther lifted it from its resting place and turned to Godric, presenting it with both hands.
"Accept this as a gift of House Pendragon, and of Camelot itself," Uther declared. "For your courage, your resolve, and the strength you showed in our most trying times. A mark befitting the Hero of Caerleon."
Godric reached out, his hands steady though his breath was not. Fingers closed around the hilt, drawing the blade free. A silver radiance shimmered across its edge, the guard wrought with elven artistry, the grip bound in dark leather, the pommel crowned with a sapphire that caught the light like living fire. Runes etched along the steel gleamed faintly, not unlike those of his own sword. His breath caught in his throat as awe filled his face.
"Carnwennan," Uther said. "Forged by Gil-Galad himself for my forebear, in the days of alliance between men and elves. It passed to the first King of Camelot, one of the Five Heroes. It has remained in my House for generations… until now."
The words nearly buckled Godric's knees. "This… this belonged to Uther Pendragon? The Uther Pendragon?" He slid the blade carefully back into its scabbard, shaking his head. "Your majesty, I… I cannot accept this. It's far too great a treasure. Too important to your House."
Uther threw back his head and laughed, the sound rolling like thunder. "Modesty ill suits a son of Ignis, yet on you it rests well. Which is precisely why I place it in your hands." He stepped closer. "This dagger is no mere bauble, no simple reward. It is a mark, one that tells all Avalon what you have done, and that, as the elves once did, the Pendragons stand beside you."
Salazar's eyes widened, his composure cracking into open astonishment. Rowena nearly dropped her teacup, and Helga's half-eaten scone slipped from her fingers unnoticed. Even Jeanne, poised and composed, could not mask the shock in her eyes, for she understood what Uther's words truly meant.
Godric turned instinctively toward Arthur, who offered him a jaunty salute and a grin. Artoria only rolled her eyes and looked away.
For a moment, silence held, broken only by the sound of Godric's breath as he looked once more at the dagger in his grasp. Finally, he lifted his gaze to the king. "Thank you, your majesty," he said quietly but firmly. "I will treasure it always."
"Good, lad," Uther said with a firm nod. Before he could continue, the sound of armored steps carried into the veranda, drawing every gaze toward the foyer.
A man emerged. Tall, though still a head shorter than the king. His scalp was bare, save for the grey stubble of hair, his face clean-shaven and stern. White and gold plate gleamed beneath the light. A heavy cloak draped from his shoulders. What struck the eye most, however, was the monstrous greatsword strapped to his back, broader and longer even than the weapon Bastion bore, its blackened steel traced with veins of gold. The air seemed to hum with the weight of it as he halted, his fist thundering against his breastplate in salute.
"Your Grace, a word, if you would," he said, his voice rasping like gravel.
"Of course," Uther replied, before turning back with a faint chuckle. "Forgive me, I've forgotten my manners." He gestured toward the knight. "This is Ser Clarus Amicitia, my Sworn Shield, Lord Commander of the Crownsguard, and one of my most trusted advisors."
Clarus inclined his head with a curt bow. "A pleasure."
Uther exhaled, his eye drifting briefly toward Arthur and Artoria, who answered with the barest of nods. His gaze returned to the five friends. "Now, if you would excuse me, duty calls. A king's work is never done." He let the words settle before addressing them once more. "But before I depart, tell me, is there anything you would ask of me?" His gaze swept across them, settling at last on Godric before shifting to the others. "Anything at all?"
Helga's hand shot up, beaming with eagerness, only for Rowena to swat it down at once. Helga flinched, shaking her hand with a pout as the others tried not to laugh.
"Well… there is one more thing," Godric said at last.
Uther's brow arched as he regarded him. "Oh? And what matter weighs upon you, lad?"
"There's a place I've been meaning to visit," Godric continued, meeting the king's gaze. "Only, I've been told it's closed to the public. With your leave, I'd like permission to go there."
Uther leaned back slightly, fingers brushing his beard as he tapped his chin in thought. "Interesting," he murmured. His sapphire eye narrowed with measured curiosity. "And pray, where might this forbidden place be?"
****
The interior rose around them in solemn grandeur, high walls and towering pillars carved from marble so polished it caught the faintest light. Like the palace above, the design bore the mark of all five races. Silvered steel and gold tracing the ceilings, elven motifs etched alongside dwarven craft, orcish reliefs, and therian carvings woven into the stone.
At the center stood a vast marble effigy of the first King Uther, veined with gold, raised upon a platform that also housed his tomb. Around it, arranged in a circle, lay nearly a dozen others, resting places of monarchs past. Fresh bouquets of lilies lay before the king's tomb, their sweetness struggling against the weight of age and mold that lingered in the air.
Sunlight streamed through the rounded glass overhead, flooding the chamber in a soft, natural glow. The light caught on drifting motes of dust, each one suspended in the still air like flecks of gold, slowly spiraling in the quiet vastness of the hall.
Godric stood before the stone, his hand brushing across the carved words, fingers tracing each line as though he could feel the meaning in the grooves. His words dropped low as he recited softly, "As I lay down to rest, I now go to the place in the endless dreaming. A place where love waits for all eternity."
He paused, a shadow flickering across his expression. "Headmaster Blaise was right."
"You know…" Jeanne's voice broke the stillness. Godric turned to see her standing a few steps back, hands clasped behind her, her tone thoughtful. "When you asked King Uther yesterday for permission to visit a place, I never imagined it would be the Pendragon Royal Tomb."
She chuckled softly. "It's a pity Salazar, Helga, and Rowena chose not to come along." Jeanne's lavender eyes swept across the chamber, lingering on the carved marble and gilded trim. "It's beautiful. They don't know what they're missing."
"I agree," Godric said, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. "But Salazar hates tombs, said it's." He gestured with his fingers. "A depressing, dreary and undeserving testaments to men long pass who should fade into the pages of history where they belong. Helga's terrified of them, and Rowena… well, she'd rather keep everyone out of trouble. I suppose I can't blame them." He exhaled, pulling his hand back from the cold marble and stepping away, though his gaze lingered on the epitaph. "I just… needed to be certain."
"Certain of what?" Jeanne asked gently as she stepped closer.
Godric reached into his satchel and drew out a worn, leatherbound book: Lumea and the Starbound Tree. His fingers brushed over the cover as a pained smile crossed his face.
"This… this was Raine's favorite. Slaves weren't permitted to learn, but I didn't care. I taught her how to read anyway. When she'd mastered her first words, I gave her this as a gift." He faltered as he swallowed hard. "It was also the day we… confessed. The day we became more than just friends."
Jeanne's expression softened. "I'm sorry, Godric."
He shook his head slowly. "Headmaster Blaise once told me this book isn't just a children's tale. That it speaks of the Sixth Hero, Lumea. To save Uther, she used a forbidden spell that erased her from the world. No one but Uther remembered her." He lifted his gaze to the epitaph. "That he never stopped loving her… and this…" he gestured to the carved words, "This proves it."
Godric drew a long breath. "I know I might just be searching for meaning where there isn't any. Reading too much into words, convincing myself there's something deeper when there's not." His eyes shut for a moment before he shook his head. "Things I can't prove. Just a fool clinging to something to believe in."
"No," Jeanne said firmly, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Faith itself is the strongest thing we have." Her lavender eyes lifted to the epitaph carved into the marble. "We can't prove that Lumea's story is true… but we can't prove it's false either." She turned back to him. "Raine may not remember you, or the love you shared, but tell me, Godric, does that make it any less real?"
His eyes widened at her words, the breath catching in his chest.
"You remember," Jeanne continued softly. "Every kiss, every touch, every word you cherished together. No one else could ever truly understand your love, or the pain of losing it." Her gaze softened, steady and kind. "But it was real, Godric. As real for you as it was for Uther Pendragon."
Godric smiled faintly and nodded. "Thanks Jeanne, that really—" The words broke off as the book slipped from his grip and struck the marble with a hollow thud, the sound echoing through the chamber like iron against stone. He winced. "Bugger."
He bent to retrieve it, but as he lifted the book, he noticed something strange. The back cover had shifted, and a page clung to it, sealed by a small dab of wax.
Jeanne tilted her head as she noticed the loose page. "That's strange…"
Godric's brow furrowed. "Tell me about it. I haven't opened this book since… well…" He broke off as he eased the page free. His breath hitched. "It's her handwriting."
Jeanne leaned closer, eyes soft. "Raine?"
On the final page, written in Raine's unmistakable hand, were words that pierced straight through him:
My dearest Godric,
If you are reading this, then the thing I feared most has come to pass, the fates have driven us apart. I always carried a quiet dread that our story might not end the way I dreamed, and yet I clung to the hope that our love would be stronger than fate.
But even if sorrow waits for me, I would not trade what I had with you for anything. I was torn from my family and forced into a life of chains, into cruelty and silence. That was the world I knew. I never expected to feel joy. I never expected to be cherished. Then, you came into my life and taught me otherwise. In the short months we shared, you showed me what it means to be loved, treasured, and protected. The laws say a slave cannot have a mate, and yet you were mine.
You were my brave lion, walking into the dark without fear or apology, your blade a bright promise in your hand. You risked everything for me. You broke the chains that had held me so long, and in doing so you freed me in ways that go far beyond the breaking of iron.
I wrote this within the pages of this book because, like Lumea, our story began here, inked into the same world that refused their love. If my chapter closes before yours does, know this, I will wait for you beyond the endless sea of stars, in Freya's domain beneath that same unchanging moon. No matter how long it takes, I will be there, until we find each other again.
I'm sorry we couldn't keep the promises we made. The bright, foolish promises about wedding bells and a little cottage in the glades, about children's laughter and growing old with our hands tangled together until the stars reclaimed us. We sketched that future so often it felt real. I still carry it like a map I never learned to read without you. Forgive me that the world had other plans. Even so, every dream we whispered into the dark. The vows, the ordinary happy mornings, the quiet, wrinkled end, lived in me as if they were true, and will live there always.
All I ask is that you find the strength to carry on. Keep moving forward, even when the days darken and sorrow threatens to drown you. Do not let the grief smother your flame. Remember who you are. You are the Lion of Ignis, and let that fire never die.
And even if I am not there beside you, know that you'll be in my heart, always.
I love you, Godric Gryffindor, now and until the end of time itself.
Your mate,
Raine
A tear splashed onto the page, then another, until his vision blurred. Godric pressed the book to his chest, sobs tearing loose as his shoulders shook beneath the weight of it.
Jeanne said nothing. She only leaned against him, resting her cheek gently to his arm, sharing his silence, his sorrow, and the fragile hope within his grief.
They lingered in silence, letting the stillness of the tomb hold them. Godric finally drew a long breath, sniffled hard, and lifted his gaze to the ceiling where sunlight spilled down through the glass above. He exhaled, wiped his eyes, and closed the book with a small, tired smile. "Thank you, Jeanne… for being here."
She stepped back a little, smiling softly in return.
"Come to think of it, I never actually thanked you for what you did back in Caerleon," Godric added.
Jeanne's cheeks flushed as her eyes widened. "Oh, I—I mean… it was nothing, just—"
"Stupid. Reckless. Crazy," Godric cut in, deadpan. Jeanne flinched. "I can keep going if you'd like."
"Please don't. Doctor Adani spent an entire hour shouting at me in my room," she muttered, backing away slightly.
Godric chuckled under his breath. "You think that's bad? You should've seen her after my fight with Cú. I'm sure half the school heard her." His tone softened as he looked at Jeanne. "Still, I owe you my life."
Jeanne's smile warmed. "Then, let's call it even, for that night in Camelot."
Godric scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Oh no, not a chance. I've saved your neck more times than that. We've still got a long way to go before we're remotely even." He jabbed a finger her way, drawing a laugh from Jeanne.
The grin faded as his gaze returned to Uther's tomb. He stepped closer, setting the book gently atop the marble before resting his hand upon its cover. "I don't know where you are now, King Uther… but I pray you're where you were meant to be." He fell quiet. "And perhaps one day, when the Gods call me home… like you, I too will find her again."
He lingered a moment longer, then drew back, exhaling softly before turning toward the exit.
"Come on," he said, gesturing with a wave for her to follow. "Let's see that restaurant Helga keeps going on about. I'm sure they're already there, and I hear their roast is to die for."
Jeanne laughed quietly. "If Helga says so, I'm sure it's true."
Their footsteps echoed across the marble, filling the empty chamber. Just before crossing the threshold, Godric looked back once more. The book laid atop the tomb, a quiet offering to memory, loss, and love enduring.
****
"Skall!"
The cry rang out as a dozen tankards clashed together, wood thudding, ale frothing over and spilling onto the tables. The tavern of Himmel und Hölle roared with life, packed wall to wall with the people of Caerleon—young and old, human and non-human alike. Voices rose in boisterous cheer, a chorus of celebration after the city's harrowing siege and the long-awaited conviction of Burgess. It was a victory, a return to some sense of normalcy, though the grief of lost homes and loved ones still lingered like smoke in the air. Tonight, at least, sorrow was drowned in drink and laughter, if only for a while.
Near the stage, Excalibur's professors had claimed their own corner of revelry. Professor Eridan and Lotho, flushed scarlet from far too many pints, stood arm in arm bellowing elvish songs in voices so shrill and off-key that patrons winced and laughed all at once. Professor Duchannes sat nearby, composed and regal even here, a glass of wine in hand, while Professor Rasputin had launched into a sprawling monologue in his native tongue, leaving the crowd baffled but nodding along nervously whenever he laughed.
At the far end, Professor Lagduf thundered through an arm-wrestling contest, already having flattened half a dozen Tower guards to wild cheers. By the bar, Professor Kyar leaned lazily against the counter, shamelessly flirting with a wolf therian whose ears pinned back further with every word.
Professor Hohenheim was holding court at a side table. A dozen admirers clustered around him like moths to a remarkably learned flame. Laughter and flirtatious sighs punctuated his every anecdote.
And at one of the tables closest to the hearth, Serfence, Workner, and Ryan sat together with pints in hand, deep in conversation, the glow of firelight catching their tired but contented faces.
Serfence tipped his tankard, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So, let me be perfectly clear. You would have us believe that the contraption you carried on your back during the siege contains an armory larger than the Great Hall itself?"
Ryan leaned back with a cocky grin, flexing one shoulder. "Hell, probably bigger," he said. "Never really checked. Got years' worth of shit in there. Enough steel, lead, and things that go boom to send the Redcoats running back home with their tails between their legs twice over."
Workner gave a grunt, rolling his tankard between his palms. "That still doesn't explain how you stuff all that into a bloody metal box. I've never heard of magic like that."
"Not magic," Ryan said, the cocky edge in his smirk fading. "Science. Zero-Space tech. Picture a Room of Requirement you can sling on your back." His eyes sank to the ale in his hand, grin slipping away. "It was a gift from a friend. Maybe the only person I ever really trusted after I walked out on the Watch. Doesn't matter much now. Most of the people I kept close are either ghosts or buried six feet under."
Serfence arched a brow, lifting his tankard in a wry toast. "Ah yes. The exclusive club of friendless survivors and nostalgia for the dead."
Workner shifted, the bandages under his sleeve tugging as he moved. His laugh was low, bitter. "If you haven't noticed, I'm still alive," he muttered. "Can't say I've been grateful for it lately. But thanks for the membership, all the same."
Ryan leaned back with a grin. "But enough about my gear. Let's talk about yours. A pickaxe-scythe that explodes? Really?" He let out a scoff, half-laugh. "Man, that's peak weeb right there."
"Weeb?" Workner raised an eyebrow. "I'm not familiar with the term."
"Just means lame as hell," Ryan said, chuckling. "And don't think I missed the name. Blaze Reap? Come on, who comes up with that crap?"
Workner rolled his eyes. "If you must know, I did. I designed it to break through obstacles, traverse dungeons, and defend myself when necessary." His words dipped, softer now. "Actually, Amelia helped me build the first prototype," Workner said with a faint chuckle. "Blew up the classroom and nearly killed us both. Took my eyebrows clean off, along with half her fur." His smile lingered for a moment. "We spent a month in detention after that."
The laughter faded as quickly as it came. The shift in the air was subtle but sharp. Serfence's expression hardened, his wit giving way to something quieter. Ryan noticed.
"You've dropped that name a few times now," Ryan said, leaning forward, his usual grin softened. "I didn't want to pry, but… Amelia. She was a friend, wasn't she?"
Workner's eyes lowered, his grip tightening around the tankard. Before he could answer, Serfence spoke, cutting through the tavern's noise.
"That… and more." He raised his glass, took a measured sip, and let the silence carry the weight his words left behind.
Ryan blew out a breath, then slapped the table with a sharp thunk, jolting both Serfence and Workner from their thoughts. He reached down to the satchel by his chair, eyes glinting.
"Well, gentlemen, I'd say this calls for a little Señor Don Julio."
Workner's brows rose, Serfence's face fell into his hand the moment Ryan set a round blue-glass bottle onto the table. The liquid inside shimmered crystal-clear beneath the firelight.
Serfence pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning. "Ashford… tell me that is not what I think it is."
Ryan grinned ear to ear. "Oh, you better believe it is."
Workner glanced between the two, baffled. "Uh… am I missing something?"
"Hah!" Ryan barked, already digging out three glasses. "If you think you're missing something now, just wait till we hit the bottom of this bottle." He popped the cork with a pop and began pouring. "I don't know about you, but I sure as hell didn't fight the law, win, and walk away without getting shit-faced with my new best friends."
Serfence leaned back, tone dry as stone. "Something tells me I shall regret this most profoundly."
Workner chuckled, lifting his glass. "Well, wouldn't be the first time. I say we see how deep this rabbit hole goes. And besides…"
"Don't," Serfence cut in, glaring.
Workner smirked. "What's the worst that could happen?"