Three days had passed since Jeanne and Godric departed for Carcassonne, yet with everything that had unfolded in their absence, it felt as though an entire lifetime had slipped quietly between those days.
Rowena and Helga moved through the familiar streets of Caerleon, the Crossroads City still bearing the wounds of what Libertas had left behind in their latest attack. Concrete and asphalt remained scorched in places, the blackened marks cutting through the roads like old scars. Shards of shattered glass still glittered along curbs and gutters, while twisted scraps of wreckage lay stacked where cleanup crews had yet to reach.
The afternoon sun shone warmly over the city, and people had begun returning to their routines, moving through the streets with bags, carts, and hurried steps. Yet even Rowena could see it plainly. The tension had not left them. A sudden twitch at a sharp sound, a startled glance at the crack of a muffler spitting a cloud of glittering, dust-laden smoke, or the hollow clang of a dumpster lid slamming shut somewhere down the street.
The Siege had carved something deep into Caerleon, a wound far greater than shattered walls and broken streets. Rowena doubted the city would ever fully heal from it.
A quiet sigh slipped from her lips.
Despite everything, a small part of her still clung stubbornly to the guilt, no matter how unreasonable it might be. Burgess had been her godfather. The weight of that truth rested not only on her shoulders, but on the Ravenclaw name across Avalon, and most of all upon her grandfather, Winston. They had told her again and again that she bore no responsibility for the devastation wrought by a madman. Yet Rowena knew, deep down, that the feeling would never truly leave her.
It would simply become something she carried.
Beside her, Helga hummed a cheerful, unfamiliar tune while sucking on a candy cane, a paper bag from the Pixie Pantry tucked under her arm and filled with sweets. She walked with an easy sway and the occasional skip, blissfully unaware of the uneasy glances and lingering damage around them. It was not ignorance so much as Helga's nature. There was little point in dwelling on what could not be undone. Better to focus on what could still be made right.
Rowena glanced down at her own Clan uniform. The black fabric had begun to feel almost natural now, from the rough Velcro panels to the sapphire-blue scarf resting against her collar. Her gaze settled briefly on the Marauders emblem stitched onto her sleeve, the same one Helga wore.
It still felt strange.
Not long ago, Rowena had rejected the idea of joining a clan outright. The Ravenclaw family had always held firm to one unspoken rule: no Ravenclaw should involve themselves in something so scandalous, so unsanctioned, as the Congregation.
But the Siege had changed everything.
Burgess. The Tower. The war that had torn through Caerleon.
In the aftermath, something within Rowena had shifted. A soft smile touched her lips as the thought crossed her mind. For the first time in her life, she felt a strange sense of freedom. As though the invisible cage she had been raised within had quietly fallen away, leaving her to walk a path that was entirely her own.
And perhaps, she realized, that had been the intention all along.
Her father. Her grandfather.
Perhaps they had simply been waiting for the day she would choose it herself.
"I'm so glad Pierre finally lifted the Hufflepuff ban," Helga said brightly, her hazel eyes turning toward Rowena as she beamed around the candy cane in her mouth. "After everything that happened during the Siege, it's nice to start fresh. Clean slate and all."
"At least until the next time you decide to assault his displays," Rowena replied dryly, rolling her eyes. "I still can't believe what I witnessed. I have never seen anyone devour an entire life-sized gingerbread house."
Helga pulled the candy cane from her mouth with a sharp pop, pouting. "Hey, I told you, it was one time."
Rowena raised a brow.
"Alright, maybe two," Helga amended quickly before waving a hand. "But honestly, if Pierre didn't want it eaten, he shouldn't have made it look so gosh-darn delicious."
"You're impossible," Rowena sighed.
Helga only chuckled, unbothered. "Too bad old Sal didn't want to tag along." She gestured vaguely with the candy cane. "I bet he's out right now rummaging through some dusty antique shop, hunting for cursed knick-knacks like a magpie."
"Most likely," Rowena replied. "For Salazar, that is relaxation."
Her gaze drifted across the street as they walked. More and more figures filled the sidewalks now, many wearing uniforms not unlike their own. Clan insignias gleamed proudly on sleeves and shoulders. A few recognized them, offering nods or waves as they passed.
Helga returned each one with cheerful enthusiasm.
"With the number of requests the Congregation's been sending our way lately," Rowena continued, "I'd say we've all earned a little time off."
Helga tilted her head thoughtfully. "Strange though, isn't it?" she said, drawing Rowena's attention back to her. "With all the veteran Clans around, the Hounds of Cú, the Dungeon Delvers, and the rest, it seems like we're the only ones getting requested by name." Her grin returned. "Not that I'm complaining about the attention."
Rowena shrugged lightly. "I imagine it comes with the territory. We started turning heads after our duel with Volg and the Calishans." She paused. "Add our part in the Siege, and suddenly everyone knows the name."
She glanced ahead. Her expression thoughtful. "Whether that fame is the good kind… or the other kind… remains to be seen."
"Bah, you worry too much, Row," Helga said, slipping the candy cane back between her lips with an easy grin. "Besides, Avalon as we know it is changing. Brave new world and all that." She shrugged lightly. "We just happen to be standing right in the middle of it."
She rocked on her heels, cheerful as ever. "Bit early to tell where the train's headed, though. Best thing we can do is enjoy the ride." Her grin widened. "And if it starts to go off the rails, well… I know I've got my friends to fall back on."
Rowena returned the smile, softer but no less sincere. "That much, I've never doubted."
They reached a junction and stopped at the crossing, waiting for the signal to change. Rowena's gaze drifted ahead as the traffic rolled past, her expression gradually settling into something more thoughtful.
"How has Elio been holding up?" she asked quietly. "I know we're on our way to see him, but even I can tell he's struggling to keep that smile on his face."
Helga's expression dimmed, the candy cane lowering slightly as she spoke.
"You're not wrong," she admitted. "After everything that's happened, I'm honestly amazed he's holding together as well as he is. Especially for a kid his age."
Her amber eyes followed the stream of cars crossing the intersection before them.
"He's been staying with the baker's family for the summer," she continued, "but from what the case worker told me, it's only temporary. The baker's already got five kids of his own. I doubt he can afford to feed another mouth much longer… not with everything that's happened since the Siege."
"Have they found another family yet?" Rowena asked.
Helga shook her head.
"Not so far." She gave a small shrug. "If things don't work out, they'll probably send him to Camelot. Maybe an orphanage there."
She hesitated before adding quietly, "I'm trying very hard to keep that from happening."
Rowena glanced at her.
"Elio belongs here," Helga said. "Caerleon's the only home he's ever known. The last thing that boy needs is to be sent off somewhere new, surrounded by strangers in a city he's never seen." She exhaled slowly. "And if that happens… I won't even be able to stop by and see him."
Helga let out a weak chuckle, though it carried little of her usual brightness.
"Funny, isn't it?" she said. "I bet this is exactly how Godric felt about Raine." She paused. "Only worse."
Rowena paused, then nodded slowly. "Yeah."
The word escaped her more as a breath than speech, heavier than she intended.
"It's barely been a year since all of this began," she continued. "And yet it feels like we've lived through an entire lifetime." She drew a quiet breath. "All of us have lost something along the way. You, me, Godric, even Salazar." Her gaze lifted toward the skyline beyond the intersection. "This city has too. Avalon as a whole."
For a moment she closed her eyes, letting the noise of the street wash over her before opening them again. Her gaze drifted downward to the cracked asphalt beneath their feet, where a stubborn stain of dried crimson still clung to the concrete despite the many attempts to scrub it away.
"And part of me can't shake the feeling that this world isn't finished with us yet," she said quietly. "Any of us."
"That is quite the bleak outlook, Miss Ravenclaw."
The unfamiliar voice, colored by a rich exotic accent, made Rowena's eyes widen. She felt the presence before she fully registered the sound of it.
She turned at once.
Standing behind them was a man perhaps in his early thirties, dressed in a finely tailored koko shirt threaded with intricate silver embroidery that traced across the fabric in patterns reminiscent of tribal designs. Black slacks fell neatly to polished shoes, and his dark complexion contrasted sharply against the pale sunlight of the street. His short black hair rested in a natural curl, and a well-kept boxed beard ran along his jaw and around his mouth.
His black eyes met hers with easy warmth, a smile already forming.
"J-Jacob?" Rowena breathed, her jaw slack with surprise.
The man's grin broadened.
"It most certainly has been a long time," he replied smoothly. "And I see you've grown even more beautiful in the years since."
A wide smile spread across Rowena's face as recognition settled in. Without hesitation she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, and Jacob returned the embrace just as warmly.
"It's so good to see you!" Rowena said as she pulled back, still beaming. "What are you doing here?" She paused, catching herself and letting out a small laugh. "I mean, I know why you're here, but… what are you doing here?"
Jacob chuckled softly. "I decided to take a walk without my detail," he replied. "Honestly, my grandmother grows more paranoid with each passing year. To her, I am still the boy who used to play hide-and-seek through the halls of the Mayor's residence."
His gaze lifted, drifting across the surrounding streets. Some buildings still bore the scars of fire and collapse, their walls cracked and blackened. Others stood braced with steel supports while workers stacked fresh brick along the damaged facades.
"This city and its people have endured much," he said quietly. "Burgess' cruelty carried far beyond these streets. Even the dunes of Ajrabahl heard whispers of what happened here."
Rowena's expression dimmed slightly, but Jacob raised a hand at once.
"Please," he said gently. "I meant no accusation."
"It's alright," Rowena replied after a moment. "I've made peace with that truth. The past can't be undone any more than the stars can be moved from the sky." Her gaze steadied. "My family and I are still dealing with the aftermath of everything that happened."
Jacob nodded slowly. "That may be so," he said. "But while we cannot change what was, we can still shape what comes next." He drew a quiet breath. "And that is something I hope to help mend… if this city will have me."
"Uh… sorry," Helga said, stepping closer beside them with an awkward tilt of her head. "I feel like I'm missing something here." She jerked a thumb toward Jacob. "Am I supposed to know this guy?"
"Oh!" Rowena blinked and straightened. "Right, Helga, this is—"
Jacob stepped forward first, extending his hand with an easy smile.
"Ramonda. Jacob Ramonda," he said politely. "Former Crown City emissary."
"Ramonda?" Helga's eyes widened. "Wait—Ramonda Ramonda? As in Mayor Ramonda?"
Her finger shot upward as realization dawned.
"Hold on a second… you're the guy on all those posters around town!"
Jacob laughed under his breath. "That would appear to be the case." His eyes settled on her with quiet amusement. "And you must be the one they call Helga the Unbreakable." A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I must say, the stories hardly do you justice."
Helga's cheeks flushed instantly, turning a bright shade of crimson as she grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of her neck.
"Well… Unbreakable does sound a little… um…" she muttered.
Jacob blinked in mild confusion. "Is the story told to me about your victory over the Iron Hands untrue?" he asked calmly. "Were you not the one who declared to the world that you were Helga Hufflepuff… and that you were unbreakable?"
Helga's face somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of red.
"Well, yeah, I suppose I did say that… but—" she faltered, quickly lifting the paper bag of sweets to hide half her face behind it. Rowena could have sworn she saw imaginary steam rising from the top of Helga's head.
For the first time, Rowena turned toward her with a half-lidded glance and a faintly wicked smile.
Leaning in close, she whispered, "Welcome to my world, Helga."
Helga lowered the bag just enough to shoot her an indignant glare.
Jacob laughed softly, raising his hands in mild surrender. "Please, please, I meant no offense," he said warmly. "In truth, I hold a great deal of admiration for everyone who stood and fought for this city."
But the humor faded from his expression as he looked between them.
"Still…" he continued quietly, "the thought that children were forced to stand and give their lives for the sake of freedom and justice troubles me deeply."
He shook his head slightly.
"I would never diminish what you accomplished, nor question your courage," he said. "Both of you." His words softened, though the conviction in it remained firm. "But you should never have been placed in that position to begin with."
Jacob's gaze drifted briefly across the battered city around them.
"I have seen war," he added. "More times than I care to remember. And there is no greater tragedy in all the world than seeing a child standing on the front lines… with a weapon in their hands."
Both Rowena and Helga fell silent after Jacob's words. For a moment, neither of them knew what to say. The city filled the space between them instead. The shuffle of passing bodies, the scrape of soles across asphalt, the distant hum of engines and muted conversations drifting through the afternoon air.
Rowena cleared her throat lightly.
"Anyway," she said, shifting the conversation forward, "how exactly did the one and only Jacob Ramonda allow himself to be convinced to leave the Farlands and run for mayor?" She gave him a curious look. "Last I remember, you hated the idea of being tied down to one city."
Jacob's smile returned, warm and unhurried. "It is quite a long story," he replied. "One I would much prefer to tell over tea." His gaze drifted toward Helga. "Though it seems you and Miss Hufflepuff already have plans."
"Well—" Rowena began, but Helga cut her off.
"Oh, don't worry about me, Row," Helga said brightly, waving a hand. "I'll swing by and see Elio myself. You and Jacob go catch up." She grinned. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"But—" Rowena stopped when Helga gave her a knowing look. She then sighed in surrender. "Alright… just give Elio my regards, will you?"
Helga nodded before turning to Jacob. "Pleasure meeting you, Mister Ramonda," she said with a cheerful wave. "Good luck with the campaign!"
With that, she spun on her heel and strode toward the road.
A car screeched to a violent halt just inches from her, tires shrieking against the asphalt as the front bumper lurched forward. Helga jumped back with wide eyes, the sudden blast of the horn echoing down the street as it blared furiously.
"Hey! I'm walkin' here!" she shouted, slapping the hood of the car before continuing across the street like nothing had happened.
Rowena pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed heavily. Beside her, Jacob chuckled.
"I must say," he said, amused, "you do keep rather interesting company."
"That's putting it mildly," Rowena replied, gesturing ahead with a tilt of her head. "Come along. I know the perfect place." A small smile touched her lips. "Helga's favorite spot for cake and coffee."
Jacob's grin widened as he fell into step beside her.
"Well," he said lightly, "now you have my full attention."
****
The silver fork tapped softly against the smooth porcelain of the plate as it cut through a slice of pastel-green cake layered with whipped cream and delicate shavings of coconut. Jacob lifted the piece to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, his eyes rolling back for a moment as the sweetness spread across his tongue.
"Oh, by the Gods… this is divine," Jacob declared, giving the fork a small, emphatic shake. "I cannot remember the last time I had cake this good." He chuckled under his breath. "Perhaps the rumors about Caerleon's cuisine are true after all. I can certainly understand why my grandmother is so fond of this place."
The quaint café around them was filled nearly to capacity, its warm interior alive with the quiet hum of conversation. Patrons from every race and corner of Avalon crowded the small wooden tables. Elves spoke in gentle, lilting tones over cups of tea and fragrant tisanes that filled the air with earthy sweetness. Dwarves leaned over mugs of dark, strong coffee, their laughter rumbling low in their chests. Therians sipped iced lattes and thick chocolate drinks, their tails flicking lazily behind their chairs.
Rowena smiled faintly as she lifted her teacup, the chamomile soothing and warm against her tongue.
Her gaze drifted slowly across the room.
Only then did she notice the damage.
Cracks spidered through the stone walls. Chips and shallow gouges marred the surfaces where something had struck hard. The wooden boards along the interior bore small tears and splintered edges, hastily patched with strips of tape and clumsy staples. The repairs were crude, but determined.
A quiet weight settled in her chest.
It felt like only yesterday that she had been sitting here with her friends, along with Godric and Raine, sharing cake and laughter during Yuletide. Back then the café had been immaculate. The walls had been adorned with neatly framed photographs, the décor polished and welcoming.
Now the frames were gone, leaving faint impressions in the dust where they once hung. The café itself stood like a survivor. Scarred, imperfect, yet stubbornly refusing to close its doors. Still pushing forward.
"Like I said before," Rowena said softly, setting her cup down, "this place has the Hufflepuff seal of approval." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "In my experience, you can always trust Helga to remember the best cafés and restaurants in Caerleon."
Jacob placed his fork gently back on the plate.
"My mother used to say," he replied thoughtfully, "that those who love to eat are people who love life." He smiled warmly. "And one can never go wrong with that."
"Speaking of her, how is she?" Rowena asked as she gently settled her teacup back onto its saucer.
"Retired, happy, enjoying the tropics and the charm of island life with my father," Jacob replied with a quiet chuckle. "I'll admit I'm a little envious, but if there are two people in this world who deserve to spend the rest of their days in peace, it would be my parents. Heaven knows they've sacrificed more than enough already."
Rowena smiled softly at that. "Grandfather used to say they were the faces of the revolutionary movement that eventually brought about the abolishment of the Zerrikanian Apartheid," she said. "He also told me he had never met a braver woman in his life."
Jacob nodded, the pride in his expression impossible to miss. "My mother takes after my grandmother, and you already know the kind of woman she is," he said. He drew in a slow breath before continuing, "Sometimes I wish I had even half their grit, or a fraction of the courage they carry so naturally. To devote oneself to a cause so completely and find meaning in that struggle… there is something deeply inspiring about it."
Leaning back slightly in his chair, he rested his arms along the armrests and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "And when I learned what Burgess had done to this city… what he tried to do to my grandmother, I won't lie," he said, his gaze darkening as the warmth drained from his words, "it angered me in ways I never thought possible."
Rowena's gaze softened as she listened.
"I mentioned earlier that I have seen war," Jacob continued. "Not from a distance, not through stories, but lived it. Felt it, day after day." He rested his hands loosely together as he spoke. "Milk and honey have never flowed through the Farlands. Only blood. The people there are tribal by nature. Race was never the dividing line as it is in other parts of the world, but they are still separated by faith, by belief, by pride… even by wealth."
His expression grew harder.
"In the years I spent in Ajrabahl, I witnessed no fewer than a dozen conflicts," he said. "Some of them born from grudges so petty you would struggle to believe men were willing to kill for them."
His gaze lifted slightly as the memory returned to him.
"I was there during the Musandam War," he said quietly. "A conflict so devastating that even the Tower found itself dragged into it." He paused before adding, "It was there that I reunited with your father… Roland."
A cold shiver crept down Rowena's spine.
She remembered the day her father had gathered Bran and her in the sitting room and calmly told them he would be leaving for an 'indefinite assignment.' At the time, she had been too young to understand what that truly meant. The word deployment had meant nothing to her then, and her mother had simply explained it away as work that would keep him gone for a while.
Rowena had accepted it the way children often do, without question.
It was only years later that she learned the truth.
Roland had not merely been away on business. He had been standing on the frontlines of one of the bloodiest conflicts Avalon had ever known. It was there, amid the carnage of the Musandam War, that he carved out a name for himself. A reputation forged in steel and blood, one that would make even seasoned warriors uneasy at its mention.
"And I must say," Jacob continued with a faint, respectful smile, "his reputation was well earned. A man does not earn the name The Merciless without reason."
The smile faded as quickly as it had come.
"What troubled me so," Jacob continued, his tone tightening with quiet contempt, "was that it wasn't even a war fought for liberation or revolution. No, it was nothing more than the vanity of greedy old men, hungry for power."
He leaned back slightly, shaking his head. "They sent the young, the desperate, and the easily persuaded to die for ambitions that were never theirs to begin with, all the while cloaking their cruelty in the language of faith and calling it righteousness."
"And most tragic of all is that the war ended not through peace, nor through diplomacy… but through fear. Through cruelty so great that it frightened every faction into submission." He let out a quiet breath. "That same fear is the only reason the Farlands have not erupted into another war of that scale."
Jacob's eyes darkened with quiet conviction.
"But peace built on fear is no peace at all," he said. "It is only silence waiting for the next storm." He glanced briefly toward the café around them, the low conversations and clinking porcelain filling the space. "That is something men like Burgess never understood."
His gaze drifted across the patrons seated throughout the café.
"With my grandmother stepping down from the office she has held for decades," he continued thoughtfully, "I have little doubt that the Caerleon we know might finally cease to exist."
"Jacob." Rowena leaned forward slightly, her sapphire eyes flicking cautiously to either side before returning to him. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"Speculation at best, Rowena," Jacob replied, a faint smile touching his lips though no real humor lived behind it. "And I suspect someone as perceptive as you has already entertained the same thoughts… the same concerns." His gaze steadied on her. "You asked me earlier why I chose to return to Caerleon, why I would throw my hat into a ring that many would argue I have no place in. Naturally, the first accusation people will make is that my grandmother wishes to establish a dynasty. Nepotism at its finest."
He paused, letting the idea linger in the air between them.
"And perhaps those suspicions are not entirely unfounded," Jacob admitted. "But consider this for a moment. The Crossroads City has not seen a true change in leadership for nearly a generation. The people placed their trust in my grandmother for all those years because they believed in her. She was born here, raised here, and she understands Caerleon in ways few others do. She knows the city… and more importantly, she knows its people."
He tilted his head slightly, his tone growing more analytical.
"But beyond sentiment and legacy, Caerleon remains what it has always been—a hub. Every single day hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people and shipments pass through this city. Trade flows through these streets like blood through arteries. Commerce, cargo, information… everything converges here before spreading across Avalon again."
Jacob reached for his fork, lifting it lightly and gesturing with it as he spoke. "Some would say politics is nothing more than a structure built upon the foundations of greed and power," he said, the words calm but deliberate. "A carefully crafted façade meant to guide the masses while concealing the machinery behind it."
He cut into the cake again, carving out another neat slice.
"And Caerleon," he continued, "has attracted that kind of attention for centuries. Long before Castle Excalibur, the guild halls, or the rail lines… when this place was nothing more than a dusty trading post in the dirt, men with ambition were already watching it." He lifted the fork to his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. "My grandmother has long since lost count of the number of people who tried to buy their way into her favor, all in the name of expanding their influence… and their wealth."
He gave Rowena a knowing look.
"The Union, for example."
Rowena's brow rose slightly.
"As you know, Caerleon is designated as a Sanctuary City," Jacob continued. "Slavers who pass through with their…" He paused, clearing his throat, the next word clearly sour in his mouth. "Cargo… are required to pay a tax. A levy, if you prefer the polite term."
He rested the fork lightly against the plate.
"A small percentage of those earnings is diverted into funding the Safe Houses scattered throughout the city," Jacob continued. "Places meant to shelter and protect slaves who manage to escape their chains. It also helps fund barristers willing to stand before the courts and challenge the Authority itself, using the very letter of the Ius Servitium to defend those fugitives from being dragged back into bondage."
Rowena blinked in surprise. "I… never knew such a thing existed."
"It was an initiative originally spearheaded by the late Lady Gloreth," Jacob said, a faint, respectful smile touching his lips. "What came to be known as the Sanctuary Initiative began here in Caerleon before gradually spreading to other cities across Avalon. In time, many adopted the same policy, though few upheld it with quite the same conviction."
His gaze lowered briefly to the table.
"In fact, it was that very initiative that ultimately led to her assassination," he continued quietly. "A tragic irony, considering she had been in the midst of pushing for it to be ratified in Camelot itself. Had she succeeded, it would have forced the largest kingdom in Avalon to recognize sanctuary protections under law."
Rowena stilled.
"Something we now know was orchestrated by Burgess and his associates," Jacob added quietly, "acting on behalf of the Union, despite their rather emphatic denials."
His eyes darkened.
"The irony," he said, "is that her death achieved the opposite of what they intended. Rather than destroy the initiative, it strengthened it. The people of Caerleon rallied behind it in her memory."
He shook his head slightly.
"A catastrophic miscalculation on their part."
Rowena lifted her teacup to her lips and took a slow sip before setting it back down. "As fascinating as the history behind Sanctuary Cities is," she said calmly, her sapphire eyes settling on him with quiet precision, "I doubt that's the real point of this conversation." She paused. "And I believe I'm already aware of the individual you're circling around… Lord Graymark."
A smile tugged at Jacob's lips.
"You truly are a Ravenclaw," he said warmly. "Like your father, your wits are as sharp as talons." He inclined his head slightly. "Yes. Lord Graymark is the man weighing most heavily on my mind. His family does not directly involve itself in the slave trade, but his ties to the Union run deep."
Jacob steepled his fingers together as he spoke. "He was born here in Caerleon, and while he presents himself as a champion of the common folk, we must not forget what he is first and foremost… an Entitled. A nobleman. And above all else, a businessman."
"An… Entitled?" Rowena tilted her head slightly.
Jacob blinked, his expression briefly slackening before a quiet chuckle escaped him. "My apologies," he said. "It's not a word you hear very often in Caerleon. Entitled is simply another term for nobility. It began as an insult, you see, something used by commoners to mock the arrogance of those born into privilege. Ironically, it became so widespread that the nobility eventually adopted it themselves." He shrugged lightly. "A slur turned into a title. History has a peculiar sense of humor."
"I see," Rowena murmured, placing her teacup back onto its saucer. "So, what you're suggesting is that if Lord Graymark wins the election… he may move to abolish Caerleon's status as a Sanctuary City."
"Possibly," Jacob replied. "And quite likely much more than that. Caerleon has long chosen to remain what it is. A small, vibrant city, rich with culture and trade but far removed from the sprawling megapolis that Crown City has become. Not because the people here oppose progress, but because they value the character of their home."
He paused before continuing.
"But if Lord Graymark were to take the mayoral chair…"
Rowena's eyes widened slightly as realization dawned. "He would turn Caerleon into another Camelot."
Jacob nodded slowly. "And if his ambitions go unchecked, I would not be surprised if he attempted to turn it into another Zygerria."
Rowena tilted her head again. "Zygerria?"
"The City of Slaves," Jacob explained. "The largest slave trading hub on this side of Avalon. It lies several hours west of here, along the bay." He folded his hands calmly. "Camelot ranks second, of course, but the crucial detail is that nearly every transport route between them passes through Caerleon."
His gaze settled on her meaningfully.
"I trust you see where I am going with this."
Rowena's expression slackened slightly as Jacob leaned forward, his clasped hands resting on the table, elbows braced against the wood.
"The official polls have yet to be released," he said calmly, "but word from my analysts suggests that Lord Graymark and I are currently locked in a dead heat." His dark irises held Rowena's steadily. "As for the third candidate, it is far too early to draw any firm conclusions. He remains something of a dark horse in this race." Jacob paused briefly. "Still… my instincts tell me this election will be close. Very close."
"So, an impasse," Rowena said quietly.
"Most likely," Jacob replied. "However, there is one factor. Just one, that could break that stalemate." He paused again, letting the silence stretch for a moment before finishing. "Your friend, Godric Gryffindor."
Rowena's eyes widened at once. "G-Godric? What does he have to do with any of this?"
Jacob chuckled softly. "My dear girl, have you forgotten what the people of Caerleon have begun calling him?" he asked. "After his triumph over the Grim Reaper. After standing against the Tower itself, the people have taken to calling him the Hero of Caerleon." His smile lingered faintly. "His name now carries weight equal to his deeds. Now imagine what that weight becomes if he were to publicly endorse one of the candidates in this race."
Rowena hesitated. "When you put it that way…"
Jacob reached forward and gently placed a hand over hers.
"Rest assured," he said quietly, "I did not ask you here to request your favor, nor to persuade you to convince Gryffindor to stand behind me. I am not that kind of man." His gaze sharpened slightly. "But you should be aware that not everyone shares my restraint. I have little doubt Lord Graymark already has him in his sights."
Rowena shook her head slowly, still trying to process it. "But… we've just survived a siege. We lived through the darkest days this city has seen in generations, and now you're telling me Godric might hold the key to Caerleon's future?"
Jacob exhaled softly. "Daunting, isn't it?" he said. "It is not a burden I would wish upon anyone… yet circumstances rarely ask our permission. Whether you intended it or not, all of you now carry a piece of Caerleon's future in your hands."
Rowena lowered her gaze briefly before lifting it again. "For what it's worth, I know Godric well enough to say he would never support anyone tied to the Union. He's made his feelings about the Guild abundantly clear." She paused, considering the rest. "But if the choice comes down to you, or Kagetane Tengen… then I suppose things become less certain."
Jacob sighed quietly. "Yes, I'm aware of Gryffindor's story. Which is precisely what complicates matters." His eyes met hers again. "Graymark is a persuasive man, and he has the full backing of the Union behind him. The Sanctuary Tax alone costs them billions of Platas every year, and the knowledge that those funds are used to undermine their entire system…" His jaw tightened faintly. "Well, I imagine it grates on them more than a little."
He folded his hands again.
"With that much coin riding on this election," Jacob said gravely, "there is simply no telling what they might attempt… or how far they may be willing to go."
Rowena paused, lifting her teacup again before levelling her gaze through the rim of the cup. "Do you think that they'd try something underhanded?"
"My girl," Jacob said, reaching for his mug of coffee and taking a sip. "I have no doubt that their plans are already in motion, and between you and I, I'd keep a close eye on everyone and everything around you."
Rowena was about to respond when the soft tinkle of the brass bell above the café door rang out, followed by the low murmur of two men speaking as they stepped inside. The sound itself was harmless, the sort that would normally pass unnoticed in a place filled with idle conversation and clinking porcelain, yet the moment the newcomers crossed the threshold, something subtle but unmistakable shifted within the room. Conversations faltered, laughter died mid-breath, and one by one the patrons of the café turned their heads toward the entrance as if drawn by a shared instinct.
Rowena felt the change before she fully understood it, and when she followed the direction of their gazes her eyes immediately caught the dull gray coats of the Tower Guardians beneath the amber glow of the crystal lamps hanging overhead. In that instant the warmth that had filled the café only moments before seemed to drain away, leaving behind a quiet tension that settled across the room like a gathering storm. Smiles disappeared from faces, replaced by tight jaws and narrowed eyes, while several patrons leaned back in their chairs with expressions twisted by open resentment.
She knew this reaction all too well now. Since the Siege, the sight of Tower gray no longer carried authority or reassurance, but instead stirred a deep and simmering anger among the people of Caerleon, an anger that had not yet found a place to go.
Beside her, Jacob turned his head slightly to observe the two men, though the look in his eyes held none of the hostility that filled the room. If anything, his expression was thoughtful, cautious, as if he were studying the temperature of the situation rather than joining in the silent condemnation.
The first Guardian approached the counter with a weary confidence, resting his hands upon the polished wood as he addressed the barista standing behind the register. The young elven woman regarded him with a flat, unimpressed stare, her blonde hair pulled back loosely as she waited for him to speak.
"Hey," the man said. "Two lattes and one of your coconut cakes to go."
The barista exhaled sharply, the sound carrying a bitterness that was impossible to miss as she rolled her eyes and gestured with her chin toward the framed sign sitting beside the register.
"Read the sign."
Rowena remembered it at once. The words had been written in thick black ink and mounted in a simple oak frame for everyone to see.
We do not serve Tower personnel. No exceptions.
The Guardian glanced at the sign for only a moment before returning his gaze to the barista. "Look," he said, the fatigue in his tone becoming more apparent, "all we want is a cup of coffee. We've already been turned away from a dozen cafés across this damned city—"
"No exceptions," the barista repeated, this time louder, leaving no room for negotiation.
Behind him, the second Guardian shifted uneasily as his eyes swept across the café and the many hostile stares now fixed upon them. "Hey, man," he muttered quietly, "let's just go."
"No," the first Guardian snapped, frustration finally beginning to boil over as his shoulders squared. "Look, I know what happened with Burgess and Norsefire was absolute trash, but we—" he jabbed a finger between himself and his partner "—had nothing to do with that. Hell, we were the ones who stayed clean. We fought those bastards. We helped keep this city standing. Most of you people are still breathing because of us."
He spread his hands as he looked around the room.
"And this is the thanks we get?"
"Man, just drop it," the second Guardian said under his breath, his unease growing as the tension in the café thickened.
"Can it," the first man barked. "I'm sick of this shit. Sick of every one of you freaks staring at us like we're the enemy. We did the right thing and you treat us like a pack of ungrateful mutts. Maybe we should've let the rest of you die just to prove a point!"
"Sir," the barista said stiffly, "if you don't leave—"
"Or what?" the Guardian shot back, jabbing a finger toward the badge pinned proudly to his chest. "You gonna call the law? Well guess what. We are the law. Ain't nobody gonna—"
The sudden scrape of chairs against the floor cut him off. The sound was loud enough that every head in the café turned toward the back of the room, where a group of six young men had just risen from their table. They were dressed in black leather armor trimmed with lavender capes that draped heavily across their shoulders, intricate Celtic knotwork carved into the plates of their armor while a variety of weapons, swords, wands, maces, and daggers, hung openly at their sides with the quiet confidence of men who had no fear of using them.
Rowena's gaze dropped immediately to the emblem stitched across their chests. A wolf beneath a crescent moon. Their name was written boldly beneath the sigil.
The Wolves of Callad.
One of the young men stepped forward from the group, his boots scraping softly against the wooden floor as the lavender cape settled behind his shoulders. He looked barely a year or two older than Rowena, though the confidence in the way he carried himself suggested someone far more accustomed to standing his ground.
He tilted his head slightly, fixing the Guardian with a cold look.
"Ya heard the lady," he said, calm but edged with something sharp enough to cut. "Best take yer pasty arse outside before we decide to drag ya out ourselves. I don't give a shite that you're Tower. Truth be told, that'd make it all the sweeter."
The Guardian's scowl deepened as he stepped around the counter, shoulders squaring as he turned to face the group directly.
"So, this is how it is now?" he sneered. "You've got the Congregation runnin' security?" His glare flicked briefly toward the barista before returning to the young man. "Big deal. A bunch of sellswords playing law enforcement. You've got no authority here, and if you lay a hand on us the whole damned Tower will be knocking on your door before the day's out."
The young man didn't move, though the corner of his mouth twitched with a humorless grin.
"Ya sure about that, ya gobshite?" he shot back. "Might wanna take a proper look around before ya start talkin' about power."
The Guardian did exactly that.
His eyes swept across the café, and what he saw there caused his expression to falter ever so slightly. Every patron in the room was watching now, their faces hardened with the same simmering anger. Hands tightened around forks, knives, mugs and cups, the quiet scrape of chairs shifting against the floor the only sound filling the space.
"Nobody likes ya," the young man continued. "Nobody wants ya here. Truth is, if ya walked out that door this very minute and a bloody bus flattened ya in the street, not a single soul in this room would spare enough sympathy to drag yer sorry hide to a healer."
He leaned forward just enough for the words to land.
"And aye," the young man went on as he folded his arms across his chest, "maybe you were one of the good ones. Maybe you kept yer conscience about ye when the rest of them lost theirs. For what it's worth, I'd even thank ye for that."
His gaze hardened as he continued.
"But the truth of it is, ye're still Tower. Ye still wear the badge, still walk around carryin' that same stink with ye wherever ye go." He gave a slow shake of his head. "And that's the problem, isn't it? To the rest of us, you're no different than the lot that burned this city to the ground."
He gestured faintly toward the door with his chin.
"So, let me make this simple for ye. Yer just another piss stain that needs wipin' off the floor, and when the day finally comes that the Tower disappears from Caerleon altogether…" A grim smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Don't expect anyone in this city to shed so much as a single tear over it."
The Guardian's face twisted with fury.
"You smart-mouthed little sack of shit!" he barked as his hand snapped to the hilt of the sword at his side and wrenched it free.
The harsh rasp of steel sliding from leather cut across the café, the sound sharp enough to slice through the silence that had settled over the room. Whatever simmering hatred had filled the faces of the patrons a moment ago immediately shifted into something far less certain as fear crept into their expressions. Chairs shifted. Cups trembled against saucers. Several people leaned back instinctively as the situation threatened to turn violent.
The young men of the Wolves of Callad did not retreat. In one smooth motion they drew their own weapons, blades and wands flashing beneath the warm lamplight as they spread slightly apart, forming a loose half-circle before the Guardian.
Rowena's eyes widened. Her instincts screamed at her to reach for her wand, her hand twitching slightly where it rested within her coat, though beside her Jacob remained still, his jaw tightening as he watched the scene unfold.
"You're all under arrest for threatening an officer of the law!" the Guardian shouted, lifting his blade as if daring them to make the first move. "Stand down right now, or I swear I'll put every last one of you down."
One of the Wolves sneered openly. "Oh, wee lamb. I'd dearly love to see ya try."
The tension stretched thin across the room, coiling tighter and tighter, the kind of charged stillness that always came just before the first blow was struck.
Then a loud sound cracked through the air.
The sharp clap of a book snapping shut.
"Must the lot of you be so abhorrently disruptive?"
The voice carried clearly across the café, cool and irritated, cutting through the tension like a knife.
Every head turned.
At the far corner of the café, near the tall glass windows overlooking the street, a young man sat lounging comfortably in his chair as though none of the chaos unfolding around him concerned him in the slightest. He looked to be older than most of the patrons present, likely an upperclassman, dressed impeccably in a dark navy three-piece suit paired with a sapphire tie that matched the faint gleam of his cufflinks. Thin black-framed glasses rested neatly upon the bridge of his nose while his black hair had been swept back with meticulous care.
He regarded the entire room with half-lidded eyes that conveyed nothing but mild irritation. Slowly, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose before rising to his feet.
"I came to this café hoping to enjoy a bit of quiet reading," he said, tone dry with annoyance. "The afternoon was progressing rather pleasantly until a gathering of uncouth ruffians decided to turn the establishment into a spectacle. As you can imagine, my mood has suffered for it."
He placed the book down upon the table with a firm thud, the porcelain of his teacup rattling slightly beside it.
"Furthermore…"
His sapphire eyes shifted across the café before settling squarely upon the table where Rowena and Jacob sat, narrowing ever so slightly as they fixed on Jacob.
"One would imagine that a candidate for mayor might feel inclined to intervene before this farce devolves any further," he remarked coolly. "Wouldn't you agree, Mister Ramonda?"
The room went still again. Every gaze in the café shifted toward Jacob as he chuckled softly. He then pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, smoothing the front of his suit jacket before lifting his eyes to meet the young man's.
"It's been quite some time," he said with an easy smile.
A brief pause lingered between them.
"Lochlan, old sport."
"Wait." Rowena felt her jaw drop as her gaze snapped back toward the well-dressed young man standing by the window. "Lochlan Murdoc?"