"That's Ser Blackthorn to you," the younger man said as he stepped forward, each measured tap of his polished loafers cutting cleanly through the uneasy hush, the jet-black leather catching the sunlight with an almost deliberate gleam. "For a man of your years, I would have thought you'd learned some rudimentary concept of respect by now." His lips curled, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. "Especially when addressing your betters."
"Michael, wait," one of the younger adventurers interjected quickly, already sheathing his blade as he lifted both hands in placation. "This wasn't our doing. We were minding our business when—"
Michael cut him a sharp glance without turning fully toward him. "I wasn't referring to you, old chum," he said coolly, before his attention returned to the older group. "I was speaking to the decrepit pile of refuse presently disgracing my view."
The older man spat onto the cobblestones, the wet splatter landing inches from Michael's shoe just as he came to a stop. Michael's gaze followed it downward, lingering on the bubbling smear for a heartbeat before lifting again.
"Betters?" the older man snarled, baring his teeth. "You snot-nosed, arrogant little bastard." His voice shook with years of bitterness left to ferment. "Day by bloody day, whelps like you grow far too big for your britches, strutting about without fear, without consequence, heads high and noses pointed at the sky." His jaw clenched. "And I've had just about enough of it."
Two of the older adventurers murmured their agreement, nodding along, while the remaining pair shifted uneasily.
"Normally, I'd lay the blame at the parents' feet," the old man went on, his grin twisting into something uglier as his eyes narrowed. "Gods know they ought to have taught you when to keep your mouth shut." He gave a short, humorless huff. "But we both know you never had any." The smirk sharpened, cutting deep. "And that's the real problem, isn't it?"
Michael's expression hardened, the faint trace of amusement vanishing entirely. "Believe me, if I were interested in your senile ramblings, I would have asked for them," he said icily. "Until then, keep your age-rotted opinions behind those foul teeth." His gaze sharpened. "What I did ask, however, was whether you." His eyes slid to the others beside him, "and the rabble you insist on calling companions were responsible for what transpired here."
The older man opened his mouth, but Michael raised a single finger, cutting him off without looking away.
"For you see, gentlemen," Michael continued, his tone smooth and venomously precise, "and I use that term with the greatest generosity I can muster, I have been tracking a particularly unsavory band of poachers for weeks." He gestured faintly toward the erumpent, still placidly chewing ruined produce. "That trail led me to Carcassonne. I had my eye on this creature for an entire day in hopes that whoever claims it would lead me to the mastermind." His nostrils flared. "And now, thanks to your staggering incompetence, they've slipped into the wind."
His teeth bared, not in rage, but in controlled disdain. "Worse still, you very nearly got someone killed."
He leaned forward just enough for the weight of his presence to press down on the man. "So, tell me, old man," Michael finished quietly, "who do you think the real bastard is here?"
The older man's face contorted with raw fury, his jaw tightening so violently it looked as though his teeth might crack beneath the strain. "You cocky, filthy little—!" he snarled, raising his wand and leveling it at Michael, who did not so much as flinch.
The others followed suit, blades and wands snapping up in unison, only to freeze as a new sound cut through the tension, sharp and unmistakable. Steel slid from its scabbard with a slow rasp, the noise carrying across the square like the sweep of a reaper's scythe. Their attention shifted at once, eyes locking onto the young man stepping forward from the edge of the crowd.
Fiery red hair caught the light, and crimson eyes narrowed with a cold, dangerous focus. Godric's blade gleamed as he held it low, the hilt wrought in gold and royal blue, the silver edge flashing as it kissed the cobblestone. He advanced a step at a time, the sword's tip dragging against the stone with a harsh scrape that set nerves on edge.
"I've heard enough," Godric said, teeth bared not in a snarl but in unwavering resolve. His gaze cut through them, sharp and unyielding. "You know, the last time I stood before a man so bloated with their own importance. A man long past his prime yet convinced the world still owed them reverence, we ended up disagreeing."
He took another step forward, the point of his sword angling briefly toward the wreckage around them, then toward the little girl clutched in her mother's arms. "Maybe once, you were something better. Adventurers with honor, who took up contracts to protect others instead of chasing coin and nursing grudges. But that time is gone. Now you're nothing more than bitter relics, furious that the world kept turning without you, so you lash out at anyone you think won't fight back."
The blade lowered fully, its tip resting against the stone, not a flourish, not a threat, but a promise. "Because of that resentment, you've ruined livelihoods," he continued evenly, "and you nearly ended lives." He stopped within striking distance, crimson eyes hardening. "You've caused enough damage for one day. I'll ask once, and only once. Stand down."
The air around him began to hum, a subtle, rising charge that prickled across the square. Hair lifted, breath caught, and a faint, voltaic tension leapt between fingers and stone. A quiet glow stirred within his eyes, restrained but unmistakable.
"Because if you don't," Godric finished, "I won't hold back. And for men like you, I won't make it quick."
Jeanne could only stand there, breath caught tight in her chest as her gaze swept across the street, taking in every frozen face and trembling hand. A heavy silence settled over the square, taut and suffocating, as though the air itself were holding its breath along with them. No one moved. No one dared. The world seemed poised on the edge of something irrevocable, every eye fixed on Godric with a mix of fear, awe, and dawning realization.
For Michael, his attention had snapped to Godric the moment the young man had stepped forward, and now he stood apart from the rest, arms folding across his chest. There was no panic in his posture, no scramble for distance, only an unsettling stillness. His expression hovered somewhere between wary respect and sharp, unabashed curiosity, not with terror, but with the keen interest of someone eager to see whether the stories would prove true.
Jeanne felt it then, the shift, subtle yet undeniable. Whatever this confrontation had been moments ago, it was no longer a drunken dispute or a clash of wounded pride. It had become something far more dangerous, far more consequential, and every soul present knew it.
The older man swung his wand toward Godric, his face contorting further as his temper boiled over. "Bloody hell," he spat, thick with bile. "They just keep crawling out today, don't they? Motherless heathens. And who the Hell do you think you are, telling me—!"
A hand clamped down hard on his shoulder.
The interruption stole his breath mid-snarl. He twisted sharply, ready to lash out, only to freeze at the sight of the man beside him. Whatever fire or bravado had been there moments ago was gone, drained clean from his face. He'd gone pale, eyes blown wide, his lower lip trembling as if the words struggled just to leave his mouth.
"What in the fresh Hell do you think you're—" the older man barked, then faltered. "What's wrong with you?"
"We… we need to leave," the man whispered, panic threading every syllable. "Now."
The older man scoffed. "Leave? What are you babbling about?" He followed the man's stare, irritation sharpening. "What's got you so spooked?"
The answer came out barely louder than a breath.
"Red hair. Red eyes. A sword with a golden hilt," he said, swallowing hard. "There's no mistaking it."
His gaze lifted fully to Godric, dread settling deep into his bones.
"That's the Hero of Caerleon," he murmured. "The Lion of Ignis." His voice broke as the name finally fell from his lips. "…Godric Gryffindor."
A collective gasp rippled through the street, sharp and involuntary, broken only by the steady, oblivious crunch of the erumpent as it set upon a pumpkin, orange flesh splitting beneath its jaws. Every gaze swung toward Godric in unison, realization spreading like wildfire as name and face finally aligned. Whatever doubt lingered vanished in that instant. Word had travelled farther than he'd hoped, and with it went the last fragile illusion of anonymity. Godric felt his shoulders sag beneath the weight of it, a quiet certainty settling in that peace and obscurity were no longer luxuries he could claim.
The older man stiffened, color draining from his face as he stared at Godric anew. His scowl remained, but it no longer carried conviction. His lips trembled. His wand hand quivered despite his effort to steady it. "You're telling me," he said hoarsely, the words catching on disbelief, "that this… this whelp—" he gestured weakly with the wand, the shake unmistakable, "is the one who brought down Grim Reaper Burgess?"
Michael let out a low chuckle, a smirk carving its way across his features. "Seems even the rabble know the name of the ever-gallant Lion of Ignis." The amusement faded as quickly as it had come, his gaze sharpening as it settled on the older adventurers. "You heard him. And regardless of what you decide to do next, you can rest assured the guildmaster will hear of this. That is, assuming the Carcassonne Guard doesn't clap you in irons first."
He took a measured step forward. "Nevertheless, a cell, I'd wager, is far preferable to a healer's bed and a full-body cast." His eyes swept over them. "So then. What's it going to be?"
The older adventurers retreated without meaning to, an instinctive step born of pressure rather than choice, their eyes darting between Michael's unyielding stare, Godric's silent, coiled presence, and the townsfolk whose glares cut sharper than any blade. The leader hesitated, pride warring briefly with survival, before a dry, bitter scoff escaped him. At last, he slid his wand back into its holster and jerked his chin toward the others. One by one, they followed suit, weapons lowered, shoulders tight, and without another word they turned and began to make their way down the street.
The man cast a final look over his shoulder, venomous and resentful, first toward the younger adventurers, then lingering on Michael and Godric, before facing forward and disappearing into the thinning crowd.
Only then did the street seem to breathe again, a collective release of tension as though everyone realized at once they had been holding their breath. Godric let out a slow, controlled exhale of his own, the charge in the air finally ebbing. With a practiced flourish, he guided his blade back into the scabbard across his back, the clean, decisive click of the guard settling into place marking the end of the confrontation as surely as any word spoken.
****
"You know," Michael said as he stepped closer, his gaze lifting to the young man before him, "I came to this town with no expectations at all, but never in my wildest imagination did I think I'd cross paths with the famed Hero of Caerleon."
Michael cast a brief glance toward the younger adventurers, who stood frozen in place, openly gawking at Godric as though he were something torn straight from legend. Their eyes were wide enough that awe bordered on disbelief, the girls in particular staring with a mix of wonder and barely contained excitement. It didn't take long before one of the younger men cleared his throat and hurried them along, ushering them away with urgent murmurs, clearly eager to put as much distance as possible between his group and the lingering tension of the spectacle they had just witnessed.
He then peeled off one glove before extending his hand. "Michael Blackthorn," he said smoothly. "It's a pleasure to finally make the acquaintance of a man so many speak of with such admiration."
A faint warmth crept into Godric's cheeks as he took the offered hand, giving it a firm shake while his other hand drifted up to rub the back of his head. "You're laying it on a bit thick for my liking," he replied with a soft chuckle. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm nothing special."
Michael's smile widened, genuine rather than mocking. " A man after my own heart. Brave, humble, and modest," he said. "A rare combination, and one I can respect."
As Jeanne stepped up beside them, Godric turned slightly. "Oh, may I introduce—"
"Miss D'Arc," Michael cut in smoothly, already taking her hand. He bowed with practiced ease and brushed a light kiss across her knuckles, just enough to be courteous without lingering. "Charmed. I've heard whispers of your beauty, though I find words fall painfully short of the truth."
Jeanne's cheeks warmed at once, color blooming across her face. "Um… thank you?" she managed, clearly caught off guard.
Godric had to bite back a laugh.
Michael straightened, releasing her hand as his gaze drifted across the street, taking in the wrecked stalls, scattered produce, and the lingering tension in the air. He exhaled quietly. "All of this," he said, "could have been avoided if more men chose level heads over loose tongues and looser drink."
He gave a faint, humorless shrug. "As much as I loathe the Tower and the madman who once sat at its helm, one cannot deny it imposed a certain order on the world. Now…" His eyes hardened slightly. "All I see is ambition without restraint, and greed without consequence."
Godric arched a brow.
Catching it, Michael lifted a hand in mild concession. "Don't mistake me," he said. "I'm not defending the Tower. Not in the slightest." His gaze swept outward again, slower this time. "But look around you. Too many untrained, untampered souls roaming free, armed and dangerous, with no oversight and no accountability." His tone sharpened just a touch. "In places like Camelot or Caerleon, such chaos is checked. Out here?" He let the thought trail off. "Out here, it festers."
He drew a breath and continued, quieter but no less grave. "History has shown us, time and again, that when a lynchpin of power is torn away, something always rushes in to replace it." His eyes settled on the townsfolk as they began salvaging what little remained of their shattered stalls, hands moving with weary resignation. "And more often than not, those who step forward are cruel, corrupt, or greedy. Rarely do they come in peace."
Michael held that image for a moment before speaking again. "I fear it's only going to get worse," he said at last. "Long before it ever has a chance to get better… if it does at all."
Godric fell quiet, his gaze following Michael's as it drifted over the townsfolk. He saw it plainly now, the dismay etched into their faces, the hollow sorrow that lingered even as they bent to gather what little could be salvaged. When his eyes finally lowered to the cobblestones, Jeanne noticed the change at once, the way his shoulders seemed to carry a new, unfamiliar weight, and her expression softened with quiet concern.
Michael's words settled deeper than Godric cared to admit. He had dismissed Lamar's tirades once, written them off as the bitterness of a tyrant stripped of power, a man clinging to the illusion that he alone had given the world order and meaning. But weeks back in Avalon, weeks of contracts taken through the Congregation, had begun to peel that certainty away. He had seen the fractures now, the fault lines in a world where peace and stability were no longer upheld by duty or oath, but outsourced to mercenaries, sellswords, and hired blades. Where order, once enforced by responsibility, now hinged on coin.
And wherever money flowed, tempers followed. Greed crept in. Resentment festered. The worst parts of men were given room to breathe, while everyone else was left to endure the fallout. Godric swallowed, the thought settling heavy in his chest. This was the road Avalon now walked. And whether he liked it or not, it was a road he had helped set them upon the day he brought down Burgess.
Godric felt a hand settle on his shoulder, grounding and steady, and when he lifted his gaze he found Michael watching him with quiet understanding.
"I know that look," Michael said gently, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. "And I can hazard a guess at what's turning in your mind." He drew a slow breath. "Heroism, you see, is so often praised for what it destroys, but rarely questioned for what it leaves behind. The gallant knight who slays the dragon, the champion who fells a tyrant. Those are the stories people celebrate, exalt, and immortalize." His smile faded, thoughtful. "Yet few ever stop to ask what comes after."
Godric and Jeanne remained silent, listening.
"What happens when the carcass of the dragon rots and poisons the rivers that once fed the kingdom?" Michael continued evenly. "What happens when a throne is left empty, and the people begin tearing one another apart for the right to claim it?" His gaze drifted, distant. "History remembers the valiant blow. It almost never remembers the aftermath."
"Blimey," the word slipped from Godric, heavier than he intended. He stared ahead, jaw tightening. "I… I never thought about it. Not like this. Not until now." He swallowed. "All of this… the fractures, the chaos. Is it really on me?"
"Godric…" Jeanne murmured softly as she reached for him.
"That being said, lad," Michael went on, a quiet warmth beneath the words, "the act of heroism itself is never wrong." A soft smile touched his lips. "You did what you had to do. You stood against a man who was fully prepared to burn the world to the ground simply to preserve his own power. Burgess built his legacy on a house of cards, ruling from a throne propped up by lies, fear, and borrowed authority." He drew a measured breath, then let it out slowly. "And I suspect that somewhere beneath all that madness, even he knew it was never meant to last."
Godric listened, unmoving.
"Yes, the road to recovery is long," Michael continued, "often painful, and never as neat as the stories would have us believe. But it is not impossible. Given time, the world has an uncanny habit of righting itself, even after it's been pushed to the brink."
Godric lifted his head, meeting his gaze. "How can you be so sure?"
Michael folded his arms, considering him. "I could list you half a dozen examples scattered across history," he said lightly, "but none stand taller than the Five Heroes and the end of the Age of Calamity."
Both Godric and Jeanne stiffened, eyes widening at the name.
Michael chuckled softly. "Though I doubt it will take a thousand years this time." His gaze returned to Godric, steady and sincere. "You are a hero, Godric, in every sense of the word. Things will be rough for a while, no denying that, but you're here. You're present. And that matters." He glanced to Jeanne, his expression softening. "And so are your friends. I have little doubt that the Marauders will see to it that this world remains one worth living in."
"Wait," Jeanne breathed. "You—"
Before she could finish, Michael stepped back and swept into a practiced bow. "Now then, before I monopolize any more of your time," he said with an easy chuckle, "thank you for indulging my tangents." He straightened, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. "I've a visit to make to the guild, and a rather… sizeable problem to sort out." The erumpent chose that moment to grunt loudly, as if on cue.
He saluted them both. "I'll be seeing you again, I suspect. Perhaps sooner than you think." He offered Jeanne a quick, playful wink, then walked past and strode off.
Both Jeanne and Godric lingered for a moment, watching Michael disappear into the thinning crowd.
"Well… he's certainly… something," Jeanne said at last, a nervous smile tugging at her lips as she folded her hands together.
Godric let out a soft chuckle. "I suppose that's one way to put it. Seems the further you venture from home, the more interesting the people you run into."
"Mister Gryffindor! Miss D'Arc!"
The sudden call snapped both their attention around as Ramsley hurried toward them, the older butler's polished loafers tapping rapidly against the cobblestones. He slowed only when he reached them, bending slightly as he fought to catch his breath, eyes wide with worry.
"I heard—what happened!" he said between wheezes. "Are either of you harmed?"
"Easy there," Godric replied quickly, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "We're fine. Shaken, maybe, but nothing more than that."
Ramsley straightened, smoothing down the front of his immaculate tuxedo as relief washed over his features. "Thank the heavens." He drew a steadying breath before continuing. "The Guard has been alerted. Those responsible will be dealt with accordingly." His expression sharpened just a touch. "Still, it would be best if we returned to the manor at once. One calamity per day is quite enough."
Jeanne glanced at Godric, then nodded. "It has been a long day," she admitted.
"I knew you'd see reason, Miss D'Arc," Ramsley said with a small nod, already turning on his heel. "This way, if you please."
As they followed after him, Godric cast one last look over his shoulder. Michael stood a short distance away, speaking calmly with a cluster of townsfolk, one hand resting against the flank of the massive beast as it continued to gnaw contentedly on the scattered produce. Despite the growing distance, Godric couldn't shake the quiet certainty settling in his chest.
This wasn't the last time their paths would cross.
****
The bijou restaurant hummed with life. Its close quarters alive with overlapping conversations spoken in nearly every tongue across Avalon. Humans, dwarves, orcs, elves, therians, all of them packed shoulder to shoulder, laughing, arguing, trading stories over clinking glasses and shared plates. The interior was a riot of color, bright pastels splashed across walls and beams in reds, yellows, greens, and blues so vivid they bordered on kaleidoscopic, as though barrels of paint had been hurled across the wood and left to dry where they landed.
Soft guitar rhythms wove with the brassy warmth of trumpets in the background, lively without being overwhelming, while the air itself carried the rich, mouth-watering scents of roasted meats, simmering stews, warm tortillas, and sharp, fresh salsa, enough to stir hunger even in the most discerning eater. Amber lamps cast a gentle glow over it all, lending the space a rustic warmth that made the chaos feel strangely intimate.
Bastion sat alone at a corner table, his attention fixed on the beads of condensation forming along the side of his glass as they gathered and slid down to the coaster beneath. Even without looking up, he felt them. The weight of dozens of gazes pressing in from all sides. Most patrons were careful not to stare outright, but the disdain was unmistakable all the same, lingering in sidelong glances and stiffened shoulders.
He let out a slow, weary breath. With each passing day, he found himself understanding Frank more clearly. The tired sag in his shoulders, the long silences over coffee, the distant look in his eyes when he thought no one was watching. He had seen that same expression before, etched into his grandfather's face, and once, fresh out of the Academy and burning with conviction, Bastion had sworn he would never end up like them. He had believed the fire inside him would endure, no matter how fiercely the world tried to smother it. Now, he suspected Frank and his grandfather had once believed the same.
His mismatched eyes, one gold, the other gray, shifted toward the counter, where his new partner stood deep in conversation with a woman, laughing easily in his native tongue. The young man's smile was bright, unguarded, the sort that came naturally to someone who still believed in the work, in what the badge could mean. Watching him, Bastion felt an unexpected pang of guilt twist in his chest as he wondered how long it would take before that light dulled, before the weight of stares and whispered resentment began to settle in his bones the way it had for every grizzled veteran who came before them both.
Raul returned with a wooden tray balanced easily in one hand, weaving through the crowd before stopping at their table. "Tamales for you," he said, setting the warm plate down in front of Bastion, steam rising in soft curls. "And a quesadilla for me." He placed his own dish opposite, slid the tray aside, and dropped into the chair with a satisfied exhale. Rubbing his hands together, he licked his lips, the anticipation plain on his face, then glanced up and paused. "Don't hold back on my account."
Bastion blinked, as if jolted out of his thoughts. "Oh, right. Sorry." He pulled a napkin onto his lap, picked up his cutlery, and finally dug in. After a few bites, he glanced up again, chewing thoughtfully. "So…" He cut into the dough, eyes flicking toward Raul. "What's your story?"
Raul had just lifted his own food when he stopped mid-motion. "Pardon?" he echoed, brow lifting slightly.
"Let's start with the obvious," Bastion said, leveling his gaze as he gestured with his fork. "After… you know. After everything that went down with you-know-who, and with the whole shitstorm still tearing through the Tower." He paused, then asked plainly, "Why?"
Raul frowned faintly. "Why what?"
"Why the Tower?" Bastion clarified. "With everything it's become, with the way people look at us now." His fork hovered for a moment. "Why sign up at all?"
"Ah," Raul said, the word leaving him almost as a breath as he eased his quesadilla back onto the plate. "So… we're jumping straight in, huh?" He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Looks like I owe Sheriff Kane a few silvers. He swore that'd be the first thing you'd ask me."
Bastion scowled at that, unimpressed.
Raul's eyes flicked to the manila folder resting near Bastion's elbow, the corner of his mouth tightening. "You read my file," he said, more observation than accusation.
"Yeah," Bastion replied evenly, holding his gaze. "Raúl Reyes. Twenty-one. Born and raised in Caerleon." He tapped the folder once with a knuckle. "A mundane, no magical aptitude whatsoever, but you graduated top of your class. Academy honor roll. Hand-picked for a special program testing Cast-Assist Devices for the Institute." His eyes drifted to the unfamiliar weapons holstered beneath Raul's coat. "Certifications, commendations, recommendations stacked high enough to make the brass smile. You're the Tower's ideal recruit. Clean. Capable. Wrapped nice and tight in its flag."
He leaned forward slightly. "I could sit here and quote every line in that file until my throat gives out, but it wouldn't tell me a damned thing that matters." His gaze sharpened. "All of that tells me what you are, Reyes." A brief pause followed. "It still doesn't tell me why."
Raul, however, didn't linger. "Like you said, I'm from Caerleon," he continued. "Born and bred. Grew up in the Heights." His dark eyes drifted around the restaurant, taking in the colors, the music, the familiar comfort of it all. "This place? It's been here since before my abuela and abuelo ever set foot in this city. The man who started it was the one who gave them shelter when they arrived, gave them food, work… a chance. A real leg up when they had nothing."
He exhaled softly, shoulders easing back against the chair. "Their homeland was dangerous. Siempre en guerra. Full of turmoil, violence you couldn't escape no matter how small your town was. They crossed worlds hoping to give their children something better. My tíos, my tías, my parents… all of them."
Raul drew a deeper breath. "But life has a funny way of teaching you that the darkness you run from doesn't always stay behind." His gaze lifted to Bastion, holding it. "The Outer Ring, the Heights, the Projects, the Mecca, the Quarters, the Red Wall… that's where the ones people like to pretend don't exist end up." He lifted two fingers, making a small gesture in the air. "The indeseables, they call us."
A faint, humorless smile touched his mouth. "My family was one of them. Refugees, no titles, no coin, nothing but each other. So, we settled here, in the Heights, because that's where people like us were allowed to exist."
Bastion's expression softened.
Raul let out a slow breath. "Since I was a boy, the ones up top made it real clear that people like us should know our place," he said quietly. "Stay outta sight. Outta mind. Definitely outta the way."
"And when enough indeseables get packed together like that, cut off from decency, from chances, from hope…" He gave a faint, resigned shrug. "You can imagine the road most of 'em end up walking."
His gaze dropped to the quesadilla cooling on his plate, appetite forgotten. "Growin' up, it wasn't strange at all to hear that someone you used to play ball with is now doin' time in Revel's End… or gettin' embalmed." He tapped the table once, softly. "After a while, it stops bein' a shock. Becomes an expectation. Hell, you're lucky if you live long enough to see eighteen."
"Gods…" Bastion breathed, the word heavy.
Raul lifted his eyes again, meeting his. "But—" he said, the word firm. "My parents… Dios los bendiga… they kept me straight." A small, rueful chuckle escaped him. "And mi papá? He wasn't exactly gentle about it. Had a real fondness for the belt."
He shook his head slowly. "I was a real shit back then. Used to lie in bed wishin' he'd die, swearin' I'd never forgive him." His fingers brushed the edge of his badge. "But now, sittin' here with this thing on my chest…" His voice softened. "I get it. It wasn't just love. It was fear."
Raul swallowed. "Fear that he could live with his kids hating him… if it meant he never had to bury them."
Bastion paused, his fork hovering midair with a bite of steamed dough and meat threatening to spill before he set it back onto the plate. He glanced up at Raúl, his tone quieter. "How're they doing now?" he asked. "Your parents, I mean."
A flicker crossed Raúl's dark eyes, something tight and painful. "They're gone," he said. "Six years now."
Bastion's jaw set. "I'm… sorry," he said after a beat. "I didn't mean to—"
Raúl shook his head, cutting him off gently. "You asked why I joined the Tower," he replied. He drew in a slow breath. "A few years back, the Colors had a… dispute. Red Dragons and Silver Snakes. Bad blood they'd been nursing for decades finally boiled over." His lips pressed thin. "Mi papá and mamá, they were just… in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Bastion opened his mouth, but Raúl kept going.
"I was coming back from work," he said. "Pockets full of Cuprums, honest pay for an honest day. I saw the crowd, saw the Tower agents. Thought it was just another mess in the Heights." His gaze lowered. "Until it wasn't."
The words hung there.
"Sheriff Hartshorne, that hijo de puta," Raúl went on, "washed his hands of it. Smug bastard. Said the conflict was 'resolved' once the fighting stopped." He let out a short, bitter breath. "Maybe for him. My parents, and a lot of others, never got justice."
Silence stretched between them before Raúl straightened slightly.
"After the funeral, I took every coin I'd saved," he said. "Bought passage on the first airship to the Crown City. Enrolled in the Academy. Never looked back." He shrugged faintly. "I was in my final year when… well, you know." His mouth twitched. "Watched almost my whole class walk out a week before graduation. I won't lie, I thought about it too."
He tapped his fingers against the tabletop. "But if I'd walked away then, if I'd refused the badge, everything I worked for… everything I believed in, everything I hoped to change… it would've meant nothing."
Raúl lifted his eyes to Bastion, something resolute settling into his expression. "Yeah, the Tower's in shambles. People spit when they see this badge." He touched his chest lightly. "But what it used to represent doesn't matter anymore."
His gaze hardened, steady. "What matters is what we choose to be now. We're what the badge stands for." A brief pause. "Not the other way around."
Bastion's expression went slack, eyes widening as a chill traced its way down his spine. For a fleeting moment, he could see it clearly. The same fire that had once burned in his own chest, reflected now in Raúl's eyes. Hope, grit, determination, all of it bound together by a steeled conviction that felt achingly familiar. It was the same look Bastion had worn when he first met Frank, embers spitting from every word, eyes bright with defiance and the unshakable belief that the world could still be changed.
And just as quickly, that recognition soured.
Because Bastion also knew how that fire ended.
Frank had worn that same look once. So had his grandfather. The same silence, the same knowing gaze that came after the embers died down. Now he was seeing it again, not in a mentor or a legend, but reflected back at him from across the table.
Bastion let out a low, bitter chuckle. "Gods," he muttered, almost to himself. "It's like looking into a mirror."
Raúl lifted an eyebrow, clearly not missing the shift.
"You've got spunk, I'll give you that," Bastion went on, tilting his head as his tone hardened. "No question there. But time changes things." He tapped a finger against the table. "We can talk all day about how the badge doesn't define us, how we're the ones who give it meaning, but that doesn't scrub off the stink clinging to it now."
He pointed subtly at Raúl. "You weren't here in the weeks leading up to the Siege. You sure as hell weren't here for the aftermath."
With a sharp tilt of his chin, Bastion gestured over Raúl's shoulder. Raúl glanced back, and what met him were looks—some open, some carefully veiled, all heavy with resentment.
"Avalon as a whole might hate the Tower over Dah'Tan, over the Insurrection," Bastion continued, drawing Raúl's attention back to him. "But here? The wounds are still raw. That hatred runs deep, and it's not going anywhere anytime soon." His tone lowered. "So, brace yourself. Because when you're standing in the middle of it, good intentions don't mean a damn thing. All people see is the badge… and they'll make you pay for it."
Raúl paused, then let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he tilted it slightly. "You forget something," he said, his tone easy but edged with truth. "To you, being called scum, being treated like you're less than dirt for something you didn't choose and can't change, that's unthinkable." He lifted a shoulder in a loose shrug. "To me? To mis hermanos?" A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "That's just Tuesday."
He picked up his quesadilla again, tearing off a piece and chewing as he went on. "And I suppose I can understand why it hits you different," he added between bites. "After all, you're a Reinhardt."
Bastion raised an eyebrow, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. "And let me guess," he said dryly, "you've heard all about little ol' me."
Raúl swallowed and nodded. "Hard not to. Your grandfather was practically Tower royalty. Back at the Academy, they talked about the great Overdeath like he was some kind of god in armor."
Bastion chuckled, shaking his head. "Brother, you'd have that picture shattered real quick if you ever learned the kind of man he actually was." The smile lingered for a moment, then softened. "But… I get it now. The weight he carried. The things he never talked about. It was heavier than that massive axe he used to swing around."
Raúl studied him for a moment before nodding. "I never thought he was an unshakable paragon," he said quietly. "He was human, like the rest of us. Full of flaws and demons he probably fought in silence."
His gaze held Bastion's. "That doesn't change the fact that he was brave. Righteous. And lookin' at you now?" A small, sincere smile surfaced. "I'd bet he was proud of you. And that you're proud of him too."
Bastion's expression eased, something warmer settling in his eyes. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, I am." He leaned forward slightly. "Look, I'm still not exactly thrilled about this whole partner thing."
Raúl's smile faltered, just a touch.
"But," Bastion added, returning a faint grin, "I might be warming up to it."
Raúl's grin came back full force. "And between you and me?" he murmured. "I was there when ol' Hartshorne finally got his ass handed to him. A student from Excalibur strung him up by the balls and beat him like a drum." His grin turned feral. "Watching that bastard get what he deserved? Pure satisfaction."
Raúl's eyes widened. "No way. Seriously?" He laughed, shaking his head. "I would've paid good money to see that. And you're telling me it was a student?"
"Not just any student," Bastion said, the grin never leaving his face. "I'll introduce you someday. I've got a feeling you'd like him." His smile dipped slightly as he lifted his fork again. "Assumin' we're still on friendly terms by then."
Raúl raised an eyebrow, about to reply, when the front doors exploded inward.
Glass shattered, steel shrieked, and screams tore through the restaurant as patrons ducked and scattered. Bastion and Raúl both snapped their heads toward the entrance as six figures stormed inside, young men of mixed races clad in blood-red shirts and black cargos, red bandanas pulled high over their faces. Wands gleamed in some hands, blades in others, their movements confident, practiced.
"Everyone down!" one of them barked. "We don't want your lives, just your stuff. Don't play hero, and you might walk out breathin'!"
Bastion's eyes narrowed as Raúl's expression hardened, his gaze locked not on the weapons, but on the colors. The black dragon etched into red fabric.
Bastion calmly set his fork down on the plate.
"And the day," he muttered, flat with weary irritation, "just keeps getting better and better."