"Professor, this wasn't your fault," Logan said quietly. "You didn't choose what happened. You taught us that once. It applies to you too."
Fear had always shaped how the world saw mutants. Some abused their abilities, yes—but far more tragedies came from panic. When powers first surfaced, fear robbed people of control, and families paid the price. Every child brought to the school had heard Charles give the same patient guidance, helping them face life again without shame.
What happened to Charles was no different. His illness stole control from him, and the consequences crushed him more deeply than anyone else.
"I'm not a child," Charles replied softly. "When I make a mistake, I must carry it. I can't bring back the dead. I can only try to protect the living."
He looked at the children and smiled, the pain still there, but steadied by purpose. Without them, he might never have faced those memories at all.
Rowan spoke up. "Professor, it's been decades. Wouldn't the government have seized the property by now?"
The location was ideal. Westchester lay north of the city, far enough from Manhattan's chaos to avoid daily attention, close enough to stay connected. Even large-scale disasters rarely touched it. And the Bronx beyond was a maze of noise and neglect—exactly the kind of place powerful people ignored.
But a castle sitting empty for twenty-five years sounded unlikely.
Charles wiped his eyes. "I was never publicly charged. The government didn't want attention, and they didn't have proof they could present. Officially, I still exist. So do my assets—including the estate. I can't appear or use them directly, but they couldn't take them without exposing everything."
Rowan nodded as the pieces fell into place. Charles Xavier wasn't just a school founder. Publicly, he was the heir to an old, entrenched fortune—wealth older and quieter than Stark Industries. Without undeniable evidence, seizing everything would have terrified every other powerful family in the country.
And there was no evidence. What happened left no fingerprints, no weapons, nothing that could be proven in court. A public trial would have shattered trust in the government itself.
"In that case," Rowan said after a moment, "it's a strong option."
The timing fit. When the tragedy happened, the world had been different. Stark was still a teenager. Fury was unknown. The larger storms hadn't begun yet. It was entirely possible the place had been left to rot.
"I don't object," Gabriela said. "As long as the children are safe."
That settled it. Logan didn't argue further. For all his fear, the school had once been home. Caliban didn't care where they went, as long as Charles and Logan were there.
The truck turned east.
They avoided cities, resupplying in small towns, resting far from major roads. To stay hidden, they changed vehicles more than once, selling one truck and buying another under different faces. After two days, they reached the northern edge of the Bronx.
Charles's condition improved slightly once he stopped running from himself. He couldn't use his abilities freely, but gentle influence came more easily, smoothing their path when needed.
Rowan and Logan went ahead alone to scout.
The estate stood exactly as Charles had described it—abandoned, weathered, untouched. No squatters. No patrols. Just silence.
That night, they brought the children in quietly and settled into the underground levels. Two floors. Old training rooms. The sealed chamber. Enough empty rooms for everyone to rest.
For the first time in a long while, they had a place to breathe.