The name rippled through the café like a sudden gust stirring still water, drawing raised eyebrows, tilted heads, and murmurs beneath lowered voices. Members of the Wolves of Callad exchanged brief glances among themselves, their expressions shifting with curiosity rather than surprise, yet for the two Guardians, and for several of the older patrons seated throughout the café, the name Murdoc struck with far greater force, widening eyes and loosening jaws as recognition dawned.
Rowena knew the name well.
It was one spoken often in the halls of the upper crust, among the families Jacob had earlier described as Entitled, a lineage whose wealth and influence rivaled that of the Graymarks themselves. Like most of the noble houses scattered across Avalon, the Murdocs carried a reputation both exalted and deeply controversial, admired in certain circles while whispered about in others, their legacy threaded through politics, commerce, and more than a few scandals that polite society preferred not to speak of too loudly.
Lochlan rose slowly from his seat by the window as he tucked his book beneath one arm and nudged his glasses higher along the bridge of his nose. His gaze drifted between the Guardians and the lavender-cloaked young men standing across the café floor, his expression half-lidded with the kind of weary irritation one might reserve for an unpleasant inconvenience. Yet behind that languid posture, something colder stirred within his sapphire irises. A simmering disdain that settled across the room like frost.
For a moment, the entire café seemed to hold its breath.
"I had thought," Lochlan began at last, "that the denizens of the famed Crossroads City might possess at least a modicum of civility."
His gaze moved slowly across the room before returning to the confrontation near the counter.
"Clearly," he continued, "I expected far too much."
Then his eyes settled squarely upon the Guardians.
The contempt in them sharpened.
"But none, I must say," Lochlan added softly, "are quite so deplorable as the filth that continues to ooze from that septic tank you insist on calling the Clock Tower."
A scowl carved deep lines across the Guardian's face as anger flared in his eyes.
"Now listen here, you—"
"Be silent, worm."
Lochlan cut across the café like a lash. His lips curled faintly, exposing his teeth as though the very act of speaking to the man offended him.
"You would do well to mind the manner in which you address me," he continued. "I will not be spoken to so callously, least of all by the likes of you."
He stepped away from his table with unhurried grace, the movement smooth and controlled. As his jacket shifted, the polished silver hilt of a wand became visible within the inner lining, its surface etched with fine engravings that caught the amber light of the lamps overhead.
"Furthermore," Lochlan continued, "among the filth, the riffraff, the scum, the slime, and the muck one finds clinging stubbornly to the soles of one's boots, you and your ilk would still manage to rank beneath it all."
His gaze never left the Guardian's face.
"So, allow me to offer a word of advice," he went on. "Remember your place. Know it. Accept it. And above all, embody it." The faintest curl touched his lips. "Because I assure you, not a single soul in this room would tolerate another word spilling from that gutter you insist on calling a mouth without feeling the sudden and overwhelming urge to relieve you of your tongue."
His expression hardened slightly.
"And I, for one, would not hesitate to oblige."
Across the room, Rowena's expression darkened at once.
Her sapphire eyes narrowed as her fingers curled slowly into a fist atop the table, the leather of her glove tightening across her knuckles. There had always been something about the noble class that grated against her patience. The way they carried themselves, the way they spoke, every word dipped in condescension and quiet superiority. It was an arrogance she had endured her entire life among the circles her family moved within, an attitude she and Bran had been forced to tolerate simply by virtue of their own standing among Avalon's elite.
Yet even by those standards, Lochlan Murdoc radiated the sort of smug entitlement she found utterly insufferable. In that moment, he embodied everything she had come to despise about men like him.
"Y-You—"
The Guardian sputtered, the word breaking apart in his throat as his face flushed a furious red. Rage twisted across his features, yet something held him back all the same, his sword trembling slightly in his grip as though shackled by the weight of consequences he could neither see nor escape. Beside him, his partner stood rigid, watching with a mixture of concern and unease, though there was a flicker in his eyes that suggested he too wondered, if only for a moment, whether surrendering to that impulse might be worth whatever followed.
Before the tension could snap, Jacob stepped forward.
"Now, now, gentlemen," he said calmly, lifting both hands in a placating gesture, his expression softened by a warm and reassuring smile. "There is truly no need for this unpleasantness. Let us allow cooler heads, and even cooler judgment, to prevail."
He glanced between them before continuing in the same easy tone.
"It has been a long day for everyone involved, and hunger and thirst have a way of turning even the most reasonable men into beasts."
Jacob stepped closer and placed a gentle hand upon the Guardian's shoulder, the gesture firm yet strangely comforting. Their eyes met.
"Would you agree?" he asked quietly.
The Guardian's lips trembled as if he meant to respond, but no words came. Instead, Jacob's smile widened slightly, his teeth flashing white before he turned his attention toward the barista behind the counter.
"My dear," he said pleasantly, "would you be so kind as to prepare two coffees and one of your coconut cakes to go?"
The barista opened her mouth to object, but Jacob lifted a hand lightly before she could speak.
"For me," he added smoothly, "and I trust you would not hold it against me if I chose to gift my order to someone else."
The elven girl let out a sharp breath and rolled her eyes with theatrical exhaustion. "Whatever," she muttered before turning toward the espresso machine, the hiss of steam beginning to fill the space behind the counter.
Jacob turned slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder toward the tense cluster of armed young men.
"As for you gentlemen," he said, "perhaps we might all do ourselves the courtesy of putting our weapons away. I assure you these men have no intention of arresting anyone here today, nor of continuing this rather unpleasant display of belligerence."
He paused before turning his gaze back toward the two Guardians.
"Is that correct?"
The Guardian who had drawn his sword earlier leaned slightly to peer around Jacob's shoulder, his eyes still burning with resentment as they settled briefly on the young Irishman across the room. For a moment it seemed he might refuse outright, yet the weight of the room, and Jacob's quiet presence, pressed heavily upon him.
"Yeah," he said at last. "We're good."
With a final glare he slid the blade back into its sheath.
Across the café, the Wolves of Callad followed suit. One by one weapons disappeared back into scabbards and holsters, the faint rasp of leather and metal echoing through the room. Their leader gave a quiet scoff before returning to his seat at the table, though none of them looked away from the Guardians, their attention lingering like a silent warning.
Jacob shifted his focus back to the two men standing before him.
"I understand," he said quietly, "perhaps more than you might imagine, what it means to find yourself on the receiving end of scorn. Particularly when part of you knows you may not deserve it." He paused briefly before continuing. "And for what it is worth, I do sympathize."
His gaze moved briefly across the patrons seated throughout the café before returning to the Guardians once more.
"But wounds such as these rarely heal overnight," he continued gently. "And even when they do begin to close, they leave scars behind. That is the nature of hurt." His tone softened. "You cannot mend something broken through force. Only through patience, through time… and through understanding."
The two Guardians listened in silence.
From her seat, Rowena watched the exchange with growing amazement.
"It will not be easy," Jacob went on, gesturing lightly toward both the men and the room around them. "For either side. Rebuilding what has been shattered never is. But every journey, no matter how long, begins with a single step."
He offered them a warm, hopeful smile.
"You must simply be willing to endure long enough to take it. And perhaps…" he added softly, "in time, Caerleon may yet learn to embrace you again."
The soft thud of a paper bag landing on the polished counter drew the attention of everyone nearest to it. The elven barista slid it across with little care, her expression twisted into a thin sneer before she turned sharply back to the espresso machine, clearly finished with the matter.
Jacob glanced toward the counter.
The two Guardians looked at him for a moment, the tension in their shoulders slowly loosening now that the confrontation had passed. One of them gave a brief nod of acknowledgment before reaching forward to take the bag. Without another word between them, the pair turned and headed for the door.
The brass bell above it jingled once more as they stepped outside.
Only after the door swung shut behind them did the café finally seem to breathe again. The tight silence that had gripped the room broke apart as conversations cautiously resumed, chairs shifted back into place, and the low murmur of voices returned to fill the air.
Through it all, Lochlan continued to watch.
The faint look of condescension in his eyes had not faded in the slightest.
He tilted his head slightly, his half-lidded sapphire gaze settling upon Jacob's dark eyes with cool scrutiny.
"Ever the diplomat," Lochlan remarked. "It seems the years you spent in Ajrabahl served you remarkably well."
He stepped forward until he stood before Jacob.
"I must confess, I am impressed," he continued, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as though the entire ordeal had merely been an inconvenience. "Dealing with those…" He paused, his lip curling faintly as though the word itself offended him. "…savages cannot have been an easy endeavor."
"You might be surprised, Lochlan," Jacob replied calmly, cutting him off before the remark could linger. "The actions of a few rarely reflect the true nature of the many. More often than not, it is the silent majority that suffers while the loudest voices drown out reason."
Lochlan gave a faint, humorless smile.
"And yet," he replied smoothly, "it is always the loudest voices that shape the fate of everyone else. Call it cruel irony if you wish, but the silent majority counts for very little once the wheels of history begin to turn."
Jacob chuckled softly, though there was little amusement in his eyes.
"I may have grown into a politician," he said, "but you remain exactly as I remember you. An unrepentant cynic." He shook his head slightly. "You were like this even when you were barely waist-high."
His expression hardened as he continued.
"In my experience, wise men avoid conflict whenever possible. They do not go searching for it simply to prove a point." His gaze sharpened. "You are no longer a child, Lochlan. A tongue as sharp as yours may draw blood, but your noble name will not protect you forever."
For a brief moment, Lochlan's expression cooled several degrees.
Then his attention shifted.
His eyes moved past Jacob and settled upon Rowena seated at the table behind him. After a brief glance back at Jacob, Lochlan stepped past him without another word. Rowena met his gaze head-on. The fire simmering in her sapphire eyes had not diminished in the slightest.
"And who do we have here?" Lochlan said as he stopped beside the table, his gaze lowering to Rowena with the same half-lidded scrutiny he had offered the rest of the room. "If it isn't Rowena Ravenclaw." His eyes drifted briefly to the dark uniform she wore, lingering on the clan emblem stitched neatly along her sleeve. "Or perhaps I should address you by your newer title… the Raven of Ventus."
Rowena's lips curved into a faint, amused simper as she reached calmly for her teacup. Lifting it with steady fingers, she took a measured sip, her sapphire eyes never leaving his face.
"Whichever you prefer," she replied evenly. "A name is merely a name, and a title no more than a word people choose to attach to it." She tilted her head slightly as if studying him. "And you must be Lochlan Murdoc, scion of House Murdoc. If memory serves, your family owns one of the largest media conglomerates in Avalon."
A quiet laugh slipped from him, more scoff than amusement.
"Well informed, Miss Ravenclaw," he said. "Though I suppose that should not surprise me, given your family's… considerable stature and influence." His fingers tapped lightly against his side as he continued. "I once had the pleasure of making your brother's acquaintance. Bran Ravenclaw, if I recall correctly."
"Funny," Rowena said lightly, lowering her cup back toward the saucer. "He has never once mentioned you."
A faint twitch flickered across Lochlan's eyebrow.
"As a matter of fact," she continued, "I scarcely know anything about you beyond the name. Only rumors. Stories. The sort of words that pass between people when someone's reputation precedes them."
"Is that so?" Lochlan asked coolly. "And pray tell… what exactly do these stories say about me?"
"That you are," Rowena began, "the most gutless, insufferable, egotistical, pretentious, deluded, self-centered, and spoiled little—"
Lochlan's expression tightened visibly.
"—pompous brat this side of—"
"Enough!" Lochlan snapped, his nostrils flaring as the composure he had so carefully maintained cracked for the first time.
Across the table, Jacob lifted a hand to his mouth, barely managing to stifle a laugh.
Rowena blinked innocently.
"But wasn't that your question?" she asked, feigning mild confusion. "I was simply answering it."
Lochlan drew a slow breath through his nose and ran a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply.
"I see the grace and refinement so often attributed to the Ravenclaw family have somehow eluded you, Miss Ravenclaw," he said, the restraint in his words thinly masking his irritation. His gaze moved slowly over her from head to toe. "Though I suppose that should not come as much of a surprise… given the circumstances of your birth."
Rowena's expression darkened immediately.
She placed her teacup down onto its saucer with quiet precision before lifting her gaze back to him.
"As they say," she replied coolly, "those who live in glass houses would be wise not to throw stones." Her sapphire eyes narrowed slightly, catching the dim café light in a way that made them seem almost luminous. "And truth be told, I have never encountered a man so hopelessly intoxicated by his own nobility that he manages to forget where he himself came from."
Lochlan's face twisted, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he prepared to respond, but Rowena lifted a finger before a single word could leave his mouth.
"And yes," she said coolly, "I'm fully aware those are nothing more than rumors, just as the whispers surrounding my birth are little more than speculation dressed up as truth." Her gaze held his without wavering. "But if we are going to begin treating rumor as fact, then you should know I am perfectly capable of playing the same game."
She leaned back slightly in her chair, studying him with a measured calm.
"And believe me, Mister Murdoc, you may have convinced yourself that you are the smartest person in this room," Rowena continued, "but I see through you rather clearly."
Lochlan's expression darkened further.
"You cannot challenge Jacob directly," she went on, as though laying out the pieces of a puzzle he had hoped no one would notice. "So, you chose the next most convenient target. Me. His guest. You assumed I would be easier to provoke."
Her eyes sharpened.
"You refrained from invoking my family's association with the Tower, because even you know that would have been crude, inelegant, and far beneath you." She tilted her head slightly. "So instead, you tried something subtler. You hoped to upset me, to needle your way beneath my skin until I lost my composure."
She gestured faintly toward Jacob.
"Then Jacob would feel compelled to intervene, to console me, and in doing so you would paint him as weak… a man unable to control the situation before him. A poor candidate, unfit for leadership."
A small smirk curled across Rowena's lips.
"Unfortunately, you have proven yourself a rather poor judge of character." Her gaze hardened. "Perhaps this might have worked before the Siege."
She rested her elbow against the table and allowed her cheek to settle lightly against her fist, her eyes never leaving his.
"But I have faced down a spoiled brat and his clan who believed themselves untouchable," Rowena said quietly. "I have stared down the wands of Norsefire, stood in the middle of death and ruin, and survived a war that nearly reduced this city to ash."
She leaned slightly forward as she spoke, her gaze never leaving Lochlan's.
"I watched Caerleon burn," she continued, her tone softening, though the steel beneath it only grew sharper. "I walked through the wreckage, through the screams and the smoke, and when it was all over… I was still standing."
Her eyes held his calmly.
"And after everything that has happened," she said, "after everything I have seen… I am still here."
A faint, cutting smile touched her lips.
"Tell me," she continued softly, the smirk on her lips sharpening into something far more cutting, "can you honestly say the same of yourself? Or is sneering down your nose at everyone around you, spewing vile little barbs and empty vitriol, the full extent of your supposed prowess?"
She tilted her head ever so slightly, her gaze unwavering.
"Or is it all just puff and hot air?"
The faintest trace of Scottish slipped into her voice as the final words left her lips.
"Eh… wee lamb?"
Lochlan's composure finally fractured, the words tearing from him with a sharp edge of fury.
"How dare you!"
His hand twitched toward the hilt of the wand concealed within his coat, but before he could draw it, he felt a firm hand settle upon his shoulder. He snapped his head around as Jacob stood beside him, his expression calm yet utterly devoid of warmth.
"Now, now, Lochlan," Jacob said evenly as he tilted his chin toward the rest of the café. "This is neither the time nor the place."
Across the room, nearly every pair of eyes had turned toward them.
"As I mentioned earlier," Jacob continued, "it would be wise for cooler heads to prevail."
Lochlan's nostrils flared as his teeth bared slightly, the tension in his shoulders coiling tight beneath Jacob's hand. For a moment it seemed he might ignore the warning entirely, yet after a long breath he forced his eyes shut and exhaled slowly through his nose.
When he opened them again, the fury had retreated behind a mask of practiced composure. He then cleared his throat.
"That," he said stiffly, "was most unbecoming of me. Truly dreadful form." He inclined his head slightly toward Rowena. "I appear to have caused you some distress, Miss Ravenclaw, and for that I offer my apologies."
Rowena raised a single eyebrow.
"That being said," Lochlan continued, the edge creeping subtly back into his words, "one would do well to remain mindful of their surroundings… particularly in a city where the presence of law enforcement has become somewhat… unreliable."
His eyes narrowed faintly.
"Given the unfortunate state of the Tower these days."
"Do not trouble yourself on my account, Mister Murdoc," Rowena replied, her gaze sharpening. "You will find that I am, in fact, a Ravenclaw in every sense of the word."
Lochlan smiled. It was a thin, cold expression that carried none of the warmth one might associate with genuine amusement. He turned his attention briefly back to Jacob.
"I imagine we will be seeing one another again," he said lightly.
Then his gaze returned to Rowena.
"In fact," he added, the smile lingering like poison, "I suspect it will be much sooner than either of you might prefer." He gave a small, elegant gesture with one hand. "Until then… I bid you both adieu."
Lochlan offered no further words. With a final glance that lingered just long enough to suggest unfinished business, he turned on his heel and made his way toward the front door of the café. The room parted for him in a quiet ripple of shifting chairs and wary looks as he crossed the floor, and when he pulled the door open and stepped out into the street beyond, the soft chime of the brass bell above it marked his departure.
Rowena and Jacob watched him until the door swung shut behind him. Only then did Rowena lean back in her chair, a scowl still lingering across her face.
"What a repulsive jerk," she muttered. "I'm beginning to think those Entitled aren't actually born at all. They probably just split in half like some kind of slime whenever the population needs replenishing. Honestly, how else would you explain behavior like that?"
Jacob chuckled as he pulled his chair closer to the table again and settled comfortably into it, the easy amusement in his expression returning as though the confrontation had merely been a passing inconvenience.
"I have known you for a very long time, Rowena," he said thoughtfully. "But even I can see just how much you've grown."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"You were always the quiet one," Jacob continued as he reached for his fork and cut another neat slice from the coconut cake resting on his plate. "You preferred the company of books to the company of people, and more often than not you stayed safely in the background where no one could bother you."
He lifted the fork to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "A meek little girl who relied on her brother Bran to step forward whenever someone tried to push her around."
He gestured toward her lightly with the fork.
"And now look at you."
Rowena blinked.
"Steadfast," Jacob said with a small smile. "Strong. Entirely unwilling to back down, even when facing someone who carries the weight of an old noble house behind his name." He chuckled quietly. "And I dare say your tongue has grown nearly as sharp as the arrows you Ravenclaws are so fond of loosing from your bows."
He leaned back in his chair.
"It seems your friends have had quite the influence on you."
Rowena felt her cheeks flush faintly as she offered a sheepish smile. "I… suppose you could say that."
Jacob's expression softened briefly before the lightness faded from his features.
"That said," he added, "a word of caution would not be misplaced. Lochlan Murdoc is not the sort of man who forgets a slight, no matter how small it may appear. Men of his class rarely do."
Rowena's smile shifted into something far more confident.
"Let him try," she said with a faint smirk. "I don't care if he's Entitled or not. If he insists on learning the hard way, he'll discover I'm a very ruthless teacher."
Jacob smirked at that.
"On that point, my girl, I have absolutely no doubt," he replied. "You are your father's daughter, after all."
Rowena studied him for a moment before speaking again.
"Still, if I'm being honest," she said thoughtfully, "you impressed me just as much."
Jacob lifted his gaze toward her.
"The way you handled that situation," she continued. "Between the Guardians and the Wolves… there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. It was as if the whole thing came naturally to you."
"Ah," Jacob said lightly as he lifted his mug and took a slow sip of coffee. "That sort of thing does indeed become second nature after a while." He lowered the cup again with a quiet smile. "All in a day's work, Rowena. All in a day's work."
Rowena smiled softly at that.
"You'll make an excellent mayor, Jacob," she said. "I truly believe that."
Jacob inclined his head slightly.
"And that," he replied warmly, "is all I could ever ask for."
****
The laughter of children filled the small playground not far from where Pablo and Edda's restaurant had once stood, a lively chorus of voices rising and falling beneath the rustling canopy of trees that shaded the little square. It was a place Helga knew well, a place she had visited countless afternoons with Elio and the other neighborhood children, where games of ball stretched into dusk and breathless chases through clouds of dust ended in triumphant laughter and scraped knees.
She sat now on one of the benches along the edge of the yard, the shade from the surrounding trees breaking the sunlight into shifting patterns that danced across the dirt at her feet. Her amber eyes followed Elio as he darted across the makeshift field with a worn leather ball at his feet, weaving past a wolf-therian boy who tried and failed to intercept him, the boy's astonished expression drawing delighted laughter from the other children gathered nearby.
Elsewhere, a handful of younger kids clung to the jungle gym like bright little birds, their laughter ringing out whenever one of them shot down the metal slide and landed in the sand below.
Parents lingered along the perimeter of the playground, some seated on benches, others standing in small groups beneath the trees while quiet conversations drifted lazily through the air. Helga leaned back against the wooden bench and watched it all with a faint smile, though her gaze wandered often to the parts of the playground that had not yet been fully restored.
Even now, months after the Siege, traces of it lingered.
Several benches still stood missing where shattered planks had once been torn apart by the fighting, while sections of the playground had been cordoned off with striped tape as workers slowly replaced twisted metal frames and splintered beams. The blood that had once stained the sand had long since been washed away, yet the scars of the violence that had passed through this place remained stubbornly visible.
Helga drew in a slow breath and let it out again.
She had never been particularly fond of politics. Listening to Rowena and Salazar debate the intricacies of governance and bureaucracy was often enough to send her mind wandering halfway through the conversation, their arguments spiraling into complexities that she found far too tangled to follow.
Helga had always preferred things simple.
Right was right.
Wrong was wrong.
The endless shades of gray people loved to hide behind only seemed to muddy the truth, turning what was plainly wrong into something that could be dressed up and sold as virtue. It was the same sort of thinking that had given rise to Astrea and Norsefire, people who believed themselves righteous no matter the suffering they left behind.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs while her gloved fingers clasped together loosely. In the eyes of many, Astrea was a monster. To Astrea herself, however, she was the hero of the story. A woman who believed she stood firm in the law, convinced that her path alone could save the world from the evils that threatened it.
Yet Helga could not shake the simple truth she felt in her bones. A monster with good intentions was still a monster. No matter how prettily those intentions were dressed.
Helga sighed softly and tilted her head back as voices from nearby benches drifted toward her. The conversation had the same tone she had heard all across Caerleon these past days, a restless undercurrent that seemed to hang over the city like a gathering storm.
The election.
The name of the next mayor passed from mouth to mouth with growing urgency, carried in murmured debates between parents and shopkeepers alike. Some favored Jacob Ramonda, the grandson of the current mayor, a man who had returned from distant lands that few in the city knew much about. Others spoke with cautious optimism about him, trusting the legacy of the Ramonda family even if the man himself remained something of an unknown.
Yet another name surfaced again and again in those conversations.
Lord Matthias Graymark.
Helga had heard it several times now, usually spoken by those who believed Caerleon should grow beyond its traditions and expand its influence across Avalon. She knew the name well enough to recognize it immediately, even if her own connection to the family came only through Lucian and Gabriel.
Lucian, the Head Prefect from Terra whom she teased relentlessly whenever the opportunity presented itself. Gabriel, his older brother, who remained almost mythical in his absence, appearing about as often as a unicorn.
From what little she had overheard over the years, the Graymarks were a family best approached with caution. Powerful, influential, and never quite as straightforward as they appeared. Still, Helga knew one thing with absolute certainty. Whoever the people of Caerleon chose to place in the mayor's seat would shape the city's future in ways no one could fully predict.
The Crossroad City was changing, and once that change truly began, there would be no turning it back.
Helga suddenly groaned and grabbed a fistful of her auburn hair, ruffling it in frustration.
"Argh!" she exclaimed. "All this thinking is driving me insane!"
She slumped back against the bench with an exaggerated sigh.
"And it's making me hungry too," she added mournfully. "Mmm… what I wouldn't give right now for some sauerkraut and sausage."
A dreamy smile spread across her face at the thought.
Elio's triumphant shout carried across the playground and snapped Helga's attention back to the field. The boy stood with both arms lifted high above his head in celebration, the ball resting near his feet while the other children groaned and laughed around him, some throwing their hands up in mock frustration at whatever clever move he had just pulled off.
A warm smile spread across Helga's face as she watched him.
For a brief moment, he was simply a boy enjoying the careless joy of play, the weight of the world nowhere near his thoughts. The smile lingered, though it slowly softened as the reality beneath it crept back into her mind.
Elio had no idea what was being discussed behind closed doors, no awareness that adults across the city were quietly deciding what would become of him. The baker who had taken him in had shown a kindness Helga would never forget, offering the boy a roof, warm meals, and a bed without hesitation during a time when most people were struggling simply to keep their own families afloat. Yet kindness, generous as it could be, often ran headfirst into the limits imposed by reality.
Elio's case worker had spent days searching for a permanent home for him, going from household to household across Caerleon, and every door had closed with the same regretful answer. No one had turned him away out of cruelty or malice. The truth was far simpler, and far more painful. The Siege had left too many families wounded, too many homes broken, and too many livelihoods shattered for anyone to risk taking on another mouth to feed. Even with the restitution funds promised by the city, aid moved slowly through endless queues of those waiting for help, and many people were still struggling to rebuild even the most basic sense of stability.
Helga had considered another option more than once.
She had thought about bringing Elio back with her to her own world, to the home where her parents lived. She knew them well enough to be certain they would welcome the boy without hesitation, that they would offer him warmth and belonging the moment he stepped through their door.
But Elio had been born in Avalon. That single fact placed a wall between the idea and reality.
As a citizen of Avalon, he would not be permitted to leave its borders.
And time, Helga knew, was running out.
Her gaze drifted back to the field where Elio now darted between the other children again, his laughter rising freely as dust kicked up beneath their feet. A dull ache tightened inside her chest, curling there like a barb lodged beneath the skin, and in that quiet moment a realization settled over her with uncomfortable clarity.
This was what Godric had felt.
The helplessness.
The frustration.
The slow, suffocating anger that came from knowing someone you cared about was slipping beyond your reach while the world simply carried on around you.
She remembered the look in his eyes during those days with Raine, the way desperation had slowly gnawed at him until it hollowed something deep within. The young man who had once held so fiercely to honor, duty, and chivalry had begun to lose those anchors as the weight of it all pressed down upon him.
The darkness had not arrived all at once.
It had crept in quietly, fed by helplessness and grief, until courage had hardened into bitterness and the sword he carried was no longer lifted solely to protect. Helga's gloved fingers slowly tightened together as the thought settled in her mind.
For the first time, she understood how easily someone could fall into that same shadow. And a quiet part of her feared that, if the world continued to press hard enough, she might one day feel that darkness reaching for her as well.
"Score!"
Elio drove his foot clean through the ball, sending it soaring toward the makeshift goal they had set up between the swings, his face lighting up with triumph as it flew. One of the boys, an elf with quick hands and quicker confidence, lunged forward to catch it, his fingers brushing the leather for a split second before it slipped from his grasp. The ball bounced once, then again, before launching high into the air, far higher than any of them expected.
A sharp snap of twigs followed, leaves rustling loudly as the ball disappeared into the branches of one of the taller trees that bordered the playground, wedging itself stubbornly somewhere out of reach.
A collective groan rose from the children.
"Aw, man," one of them complained, throwing his hands up. "Now you've gone and done it."
Elio's grin faltered into something sheepish as he rubbed the back of his head. "Sorry," he muttered.
"Well, someone's gotta climb up there and get it," another kid said, craning their neck as they tried to spot where the ball had lodged itself.
Helga was already on her feet.
"Don't worry, kids!" she called brightly, clapping her hands once as a grin spread across her face. "Big Sis Helga's got this."
She had barely taken a step forward when something moved past her in a sudden blur.
Helga's eyes widened as a figure shot across the playground, fast enough to stir the air in its wake. A girl, a few years older than her, broke into a sprint without hesitation, her short blonde hair bouncing lightly around her jaw as she moved. She wore cargo slacks tucked into sturdy boots, a loose white shirt thrown over a sports bra, and there was a sharp, effortless confidence in the way she carried herself.
Without slowing, she planted one boot against the trunk of the tree and pushed off.
In a single fluid motion, she vaulted upward, catching the branch with practiced ease before twisting her body midair. There was a brief moment where she seemed to hang there, balanced between motion and stillness, and then she flipped cleanly backward, one foot snapping out to dislodge the ball from its stubborn perch.
The ball broke free.
As it dropped, she completed her descent, landing lightly on the ground with a soft thud, one hand braced at her side while the other lifted just in time to catch the ball as it fell neatly into her palm.
She straightened, a grin tugging at her lips.
"Lose something, kids?" she asked casually.
The group stared at her, wide-eyed and awestruck.
"That was amazing!" one of the girls blurted out, practically bouncing in place.
The girl gave a small, amused huff before tossing the ball back toward them.
"Try not to send it into orbit next time," she said, a hint of teasing in her words. "Keep it on the ground, yeah?"
"Thanks, miss!" the children chorused, already scrambling back into position.
Elio didn't waste a second, darting forward as the ball rolled his way, his earlier mishap forgotten as the game resumed with renewed energy.
Helga remained where she stood, her amber eyes wide and her expression momentarily slack as her mind replayed what she had just witnessed, every movement of the girl unfolding again in precise detail, from the effortless sprint to the fluid leap, the controlled twist in midair, and the clean, confident landing that followed. There was something almost mesmerizing about it, a kind of natural athletic grace that left her quietly awestruck.
The girl turned toward her, one brow lifting in mild curiosity before her face broke into a bright, easy smile.
"Hey, I know you," she said, pivoting fully as she began walking over. "You're Helga Hufflepuff, right? I've seen your pictures in The Daily Herald." She leaned in slightly. "The Badger of Terra."
Helga stiffened a little under the sudden attention, her posture straightening as she blinked.
"Um… yeah, I guess," she said, a bit uncertainly. "And you're…?"
The girl reached out, grabbed Helga's hand, and shook it with enthusiastic vigor that sent Helga's arm bobbing up and down before she could react.
"Tricia McLoughlin, nice to meet'cha!" she declared with a grin that seemed entirely too big for a first meeting. "Figured I'd run into you at some point, but hey, sooner's better than later, right?"
Helga let out a small, nervous laugh, trying to match the energy even as she felt slightly swept along by it.
"Yeah… nice to meet you too…"
Tricia released her hand just as suddenly as she had taken it, planting both hands on her hips as her gaze drifted back toward the playground, watching the children resume their game with renewed excitement.
"Good to see the kids out here again," she said, her tone softening just a little. "After everything that happened… feels like the city's finally starting to breathe again." She shrugged one shoulder. "Wasn't in Caerleon when those animals showed up, though. Shame, really. I'd have loved to give them a proper ass-kicking."
Her attention snapped back to Helga, her grin returning in full force.
"But you were," she added, clearly impressed. "And from what I've heard, you didn't just hold your own. Sounds like you were an absolute knockout."
Helga rubbed the back of her neck, chuckling awkwardly.
"Yeah… something like that."
"Good," Tricia said, clearly pleased. "Because I'm always up for a spar."
She drew in a breath, glancing once more toward the playground before stepping back.
"Anyway, I should get going," she continued, already shifting her weight as if ready to leave. "But don't worry, we'll cross paths again. Count on it." She gave Helga a quick wink. "And when we do, we're having that training session. I wanna see what you've really got."
She turned on her heel, lifting a hand in a casual salute.
"Catch ya later, alligator."
With that, Tricia strode off across the playground, hands slipping into her pockets as she began to whistle to herself, her figure quickly blending into the movement of the street beyond. Helga stood there for a moment, still and wide-eyed, watching her go. A strange thought crossed her mind then, quiet but persistent.
Was this what it felt like to be on the other side of her own energy?
She thought about all the times she had bounded up to people with that same bright enthusiasm, the same easy grin, the same relentless warmth, and suddenly she could see it from a different angle. The wide eyes. The stiff posture. The uncertain smile. The way people didn't quite know how to respond before being swept along anyway.
Helga tilted her head slightly, the realization settling over her with surprising clarity.
Then she shook it off with a small huff.
"Nah."
Her gaze returned to the field just in time to see Elio throw his arms up again in celebration, his laughter ringing out across the playground, bright and unburdened, and just like that, the moment passed.