Lamar sat hunched in his pristine leather chair, fingers tapping a slow, ominous rhythm against the oaken armrest. His scowl was carved deep, teeth bared, eyes narrowed, the line of his patience stretched thin—ready to snap. A cigar smoldered in the crystal ashtray, half-burned, its smoke curling through the office like a phantom. The scent mingled with aged whiskey and cold air leaking in from the tiny spaces between the windowpanes. Outside, voices rose—protesters, reporters, citizens. The entire city howled for answers.
Two days since the attack at the Stelios, and the cracks were showing. Caerleon was afraid. Order was slipping. Hartshorne stood by the wall, arms crossed, bruised and bandaged from the club debacle. His gaze remained on Lamar, studying the man in silence. He said nothing. The wrong word would be a spark in dry grass.
Lamar's gaze stayed locked on the flickering holographic display, its cold moss-green glow casting deep shadows across his weathered face. Footage rolled in from every corner of Caerleon—streets flooded with crowds, fists raised, placards trembling in restless hands. The chants were familiar, haunting. Echoes of dissonance he'd silenced in decades past, now risen from the grave like some unwelcome ghost.
The screen shifted—images of the Stelios reduced to rubble, charred stone and bloodstained marble; the limp bodies of AEGIS Guardians beneath bloodied white sheets strewn across the wreckage like broken chess pieces. It was more than unrest.
It was collapse.
Lamar didn't blink. He didn't move. But deep within, he felt it—power slipping like sand between his fingers. All of it. The control. The fear. The obedience.
Everything he'd built was beginning to crumble.
Then the door slammed open.
Mayor Ramonda stormed in. The flustered guard behind her didn't dare stop her. She walked straight through the suspended newsfeed, shattering the projection in a cascade of light.
She slapped both palms down on the desk, hard enough to rattle the whiskey bottle.
"I want you out," she said coldly. "You. Your Tower dogs. Out of my city. Out of my precinct. Now!"
Lamar didn't flinch.
"Angela, if you'll just allow me to—" Hartshorne stepped forward.
"And you," she snapped, turning to him like a blade. "I've endured your incompetence long enough. You're fired. Pack your things, George. You can crawl back to Camelot with the rest of the filth."
Lamar raised a hand toward the guard. A subtle nod. The man left and quietly shut the door behind him.
Angela turned, fire in her eyes. "I take my eyes off you two for a single bloody moment, and bedlam erupts!" she snapped. "Guards and Aurors slaughtered like livestock in my streets. The Stelios—my Stelios—reduced to ash and ruin. My representatives are demanding reassurances, their constituents are demanding answers, and I demand accountability!"
Lamar's fingers stilled. His hand clamped tight around the armrest, knuckles whitening with tension.
"I warned you—both of you—what would happen if you failed me again," Angela pressed on. "You've been drifting on the edge of my patience for far too long. And because of our history, I gave you grace. Leeway. Again, and again. But now?"
She leaned in close. "Now it's clear—you don't respect me, or this office. So let me make this very simple for you, Lamar." Her glare was unblinking. "Pack your things, and get on the first airship out, or I'll have the Guard drag you onto it in chains."
"Oh, for once in your sad, miserable, pathetic little life," Lamar growled, rising from his chair, "shut your bloody mouth!"
Angela recoiled slightly as he stepped around the desk.
"I've marched through hell. Buried friends and enemies alike. I've stared down monsters no child of privilege could ever comprehend. And I'll be damned if I take orders from a glorified ribbon-cutter with a silver spoon stuck up her arse."
Her eyes burned. "Watch yourself—"
"You're right about one thing," Lamar sneered, "I've never had an ounce of respect for you—or the office you pretend to dignify. Never have. Never will. Did you really think I gave a damn about who you are? Mayor of Caerleon? Please."
He scoffed, shaking his head. "The moment they handed this city to the likes of you, I knew the rot ran deeper than even I had imagined."
Angela stiffened. "I beg your—?"
"You heard me," Lamar snarled. "You. Your kind. The dark-skinned strays the city scraped off the gutter and dressed in silk, thinking it made you royalty."
"You should've stayed where you belonged—at the bottom. With the rest of the mongrels. Just like your mother. Gods rest her, though I doubt she ever kept her legs closed long enough for anyone to remember her name."
Angela slapped him.
Or tried to.
Lamar caught her wrist mid-air, squeezing until she cried out in pain.
"She ground her hips raw on the streets just to catch the eye of some fat bastard with coin and clout—and when she finally did, she shat you into this world. Just a byproduct of the unholy union between your barefaced father and his personal whore."
Lamar's smirk twisted, cold and deliberate. "And you? You climbed the ranks on that same tired hole like it was a ladder to power. Shame you never had to earn it the way she did… or maybe you did."
"You deplorable little—" she hissed.
"You've strutted around this city like a queen," he said coldly. "But that little act ends today." He nodded toward the window. "Hear them? The streets are screaming. Panic. Fear. Chaos. And with the attack on the Stelios, I've declared a state of emergency."
Angela's eyes went wide.
"Martial law," Lamar said.
"You're bluffing."
"I never bluff." He leaned in. "As of now, I am the law, and you're just a complication I no longer need."
She tried to pull back. "You'll answer for this, you racist, disgusting piece of human excrement. When this is over, I swear to the Gods, I'll personally—"
"Petrificus Totalus."
Her body locked up and hit the floor like a dropped statue, limbs stiff and eyes wide with fury she could no longer voice. Lamar stood over her, wand still in hand, gaze dead and unreadable. Without a word, he reached for a button on the desk.
"Get in here."
Moments later, a group of guards entered. Their eyes went straight to Mayor Ramonda—motionless on the floor. Not one of them dared ask a question.
"The mayor," Lamar said smoothly, "has been relieved of duty. Kindly escort her…" he paused, a smile twitching across his lips, "no, my apologies—transport her back to her residence. Effective immediately, she's under house arrest. Am I clear?"
The guards nodded, stepping forward and carefully lifting her frozen body. As they turned to leave, Angela's eyes, locked wide open, bore into Lamar. She couldn't move, but the hatred radiating from her was palpable. He met it with a thin smile as the door shut behind her.
Lamar exhaled. Slowly. His hands braced on the desk as he leaned in, then back, drawing a deep breath like a man letting off steam after a long-awaited victory.
"By the Gods," he muttered, laughing low, "you've no idea how long I've wanted to do that. Played that moment in my mind more times than I care to count." He smiled. "I could shoot Shimmer straight into my veins and it still wouldn't match this."
Hartshorne gave a dry chuckle, stepping over to the sideboard. He poured two fingers of whiskey into crystal tumblers, handing one to Lamar. The two men clinked glasses with a soft chime.
"As satisfying as that was," Hartshorne said, taking a drink, "it doesn't change the fact that we're in it now. Neck deep. And no matter how you dress up this little coup for the Council, it'll only throw more wood on the pyre for that bloody Regent."
"The Council can scream about morality all they want," Lamar replied. "The law is on my side. Martial law under threat of coordinated assault—it's well within my authority." He took a slow sip of his drink. "And let's be honest, George—this city doesn't need hope. It needs order."
Hartshorne's smirk faded, replaced by a grim set to his jaw. "Doesn't change the fact that Valerian and his merry band of killers are still out there." He took a long breath. "I saw it with my own eyes, Lamar—the Sword of Damocles. Felt its weight in the air, the power it unleashed. If it weren't for one particular boy, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."
He raised his glass and drank. "What of the Executioners? What of Serfence?"
Lamar scoffed, his scowl deepening. "Most of the Executioners have gone dark—likely the Regent's doing. As for Serfence…" He waved a hand dismissively. "The man turned his back the moment I denied him a request months ago. Something to do with the Gryffindor boy. Fool took it personally. He's nothing if not stubborn."
"Gryffindor?" Hartshorne's brow lifted. "What about him?"
Lamar shook his head. "Irrelevant. A footnote in a story no longer worth telling. Bottom line: we're on our own."
Hartshorne stared, the whiskey swirling in his glass. "So... what now?"
Lamar eased back into his chair, fingers steepled. "I've been feeling… nostalgic, lately."
Hartshorne raised a brow.
"You remember our little project back in the day?" Lamar asked. "Norsefire."
Hartshorne blinked—then grinned. The grin turned slowly to something darker. "You serious?"
"I think it's time the old Commander had one last ride," Lamar said. "You'll have full authority. Choose who you like."
Hartshorne tapped his chin, already calculating. "I've got a few names in mind."
"Good." Lamar's gaze levelled. "Then get to work."
****
A strange charge had gripped Caerleon over the past few days, and Helga felt it in her bones. Tension clung to the air like static. Everywhere she turned, there were crowds forming—voices raised, fists held high, signs demanding truth, demanding justice.
She weaved through the growing unrest, a brown paper bag clutched tightly in her arms, the scent of fresh sugar-glazed donuts wafting from within. Nearly four dozen, stacked to perfection. Her lips curled with anticipation, though she promised herself—again—that she'd wait until she returned to the Academy to share them with her friends. She had lost that battle before. Several times, in fact.
Still, even the comforting warmth of her favorite sweets couldn't ease the unease that festered around her. She passed yet another crowd gathered behind a makeshift barricade, Tower agents lined up in front of them like statues, fingers twitching toward escalation. Her amber eyes scanned the chaos. Shouts echoed off the buildings. Words like "answers" and "justice" cut through the noise. It was clear: the city was on edge.
Helga had only caught fragments of the truth. Whispers of murders, of missing officials. The attack on the Stelios, a club she'd only heard about in passing, had lit the fuse—and the city had finally caught fire.
She tightened her hold on the bag, shielding it against the jostling crowd. Salazar's refusal to speak of what happened that night—and the fresh wound stitched across his side—told her more than his words ever could. Whatever occurred, it had shaken him. His sigh of relief when Godric appeared in the Hospital Wing had said everything. She and Rowena saw it, heard it in the silence that lingered between their words. But they didn't push. Not yet.
Helga quickened her pace, slipping past another tense crowd. The donuts remained safe. For now.
Turning the corner, she stepped into the town square. Blessedly, it was quiet here—the unrest hadn't spilled into this part of the city yet. The towering fountain in the center gurgled softly, a rare bit of serenity amidst the chaos. As she cut across the square, her gaze caught on a familiar figure.
A young woman sat on a wooden bench, dressed in a simple top and fitted jeans tucked into worn black boots. A long, black overcoat wrapped her frame, the collar turned up against the lingering chill. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, and her face—though striking—was shadowed by a brooding stillness. But it was the dog that confirmed it: a sleek black hound lay at her feet, ears twitching.
There was no mistaking her. Astrea Vikander.
Helga raised a curious brow. She hesitated, just for a moment, before shrugging and crossing the square with a cheerful stride.
"Heya!" Helga called out, causing the girl to jolt upright.
Astrea's hand flew to her chest. "By the Gods—you scared me."
Helga grinned. "Astrea, right? What's shakin', bacon?"
Astrea blinked, squinting at her. "Wait… I know you. You're that girl from the restaurant. Hilda?"
Helga laughed. "Close—Helga."
She looked down at the dog, whose ears perked up. "And this handsome fella's Shadow, ain't it?"
The hound gave a soft wuff, tail wagging lazily. Helga bent down and scratched gently behind his ears. His tail thumped the ground.
"Huh… that's interesting," Astrea murmured, watching with faint surprise. "Shadow doesn't usually warm to strangers. You must be a good person, Miss Helga."
"Just Helga," she replied, smiling. Her gaze drifted to the empty space beside the girl. "Mind if I join you?"
Astrea's brow arched. "Why—?" She quickly caught herself, waving her hands. "I mean—not that you can't! I just meant—you probably have somewhere to be."
"Not really," Helga said, adjusting the weight of the donut bag in her arms. "You just looked like someone who could use a bit of company."
A flicker of surprise softened Astrea's guarded expression. Then, slowly, she smiled. "Thank you, Helga. That's… awfully kind of you." She patted the bench beside her. "Sit."
Helga beamed as she sat beside Astrea, the coat of her Terra uniform shifting as she settled in. With a grin, she tilted the paper bag in her arms toward the other girl.
"Donut? They're fresh."
Astrea's eyes lit up. "Wait—are these from that shop?" She reached in eagerly, pulling one free and taking a bite. Her shoulders visibly relaxed. "Oh, these are amazing. Gods, I've missed these. If only we had one back in Camelot…"
"I know, right?" Helga laughed. Her gaze dropped to Astrea's black overcoat. "So… is it your day off or something? Figured with everything going on, the Tower would have all hands on deck."
"I wish," Astrea said, rolling her eyes. "Got suspended."
Helga gasped, nearly dropping the bag. "Suspended? What for?"
"I, uh… lost it a little," Astrea said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Went off on a fellow Guardian. Not my finest moment." She hesitated, then sighed. "But I was angry. And hurt. Someone close to me was killed."
Helga's smile faded, her brow creased with concern. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Captain Clegane," Astrea said quietly. "He wasn't just my commanding officer—he was like a father to me. Recruited me straight out of the Academy. Trained me personally. Everything I believe about truth and justice, I learned from him."
She gritted her teeth, emotion flaring across her face. "And now he's gone. Murdered. Torn from this world by bloodthirsty cowards." Her hands clenched at her knees. "And all I can do is sit on a bench, waiting for the Tower to maybe do something about it."
"All because my new Captain," Astrea said, making air quotes with her fingers, "decided I was, in his words, unhinged, a loose cannon, and a danger to the team."
She scoffed, eyes narrowing.
"Bet he was wishing I was around when those same bastards jumped him. Man's soft. Spineless. My only regret?" She leaned back with a bitter smirk. "Is that they didn't finish the job. The Tower would be a hell of a lot better without weaklings like Captain Langston dragging it down."
Helga didn't speak right away. Instead, she gently offered the bag again. "Have another. I always say the world's a bit easier to bear when your mouth's full of sugar."
That drew a small, reluctant smile from Astrea. She took another donut.
She stared at the donut in her hand, waving it slightly for emphasis. "People like Captain Langston—" she sneered the name, "they fancy themselves symbols of justice. The Tower's shining examples. The ones who preach about doing what's right."
Her eyes hardened. "But they don't know a damn thing about justice. Not really. To them, it's just a word. A badge to flash. They catch the monsters, throw them in cells, pat themselves on the back… and then a week later, those same bastards are back out there, hurting people all over again."
She took a bite, chewed, and let out a scoff. "I've heard his sermons. About redemption, rehabilitation, second chances. He says everyone deserves one. That even the worst of them can change." She looked away. "Captain Clegane, he didn't believe in fairy tales. He knew the truth. Some people are beyond saving."
Her grip tightened slightly. "When Langston hits someone, they get back up. When I hit them? They stay down. I make sure they don't crawl back into the world to do it again." Her expression softened, almost mournful. "And so did Captain Clegane. That's why he mattered. That's why he's gone."
Helga drew a deep breath, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You know, us Hufflepuffs have a bit of a legacy," she said. "My Pop-Pop used to serve in a local militia called the Badger Guard."
Astrea let out a laugh, popping the last of her donut in her mouth. "The Badger Guard? You're joking."
Helga smirked. "I know how it sounds, but it's real. Swear on every sugar-glazed donut I've ever eaten."
Astrea snorted but leaned in, clearly curious.
"Pop-Pop grew up in a tiny village," Helga continued. "Too small for a proper city guard, too far from any help. That made them easy targets. Bandits. Slavers. Worse. So, when he was fifteen, he and a bunch of his friends got tired of waiting for someone to save them. They picked up old hunting spears, pitchforks, anything they could find, and formed their own militia."
She smiled fondly. "They needed a name—something to rally behind. Then one day, a badger got into one of the neighbors' chicken coops. They all tried to scare it off, cornered it, tried everything. But it fought like hell. Wouldn't back down. Took them hours to get it out, and even then, it managed to bite two of them and slip away. That night, they said, 'if we're gonna stand for our people, let's be like that badger.' And that's how the Badger Guard was born."
Astrea raised a brow. "That's… actually kind of badass."
"Right?" Helga chuckled. "Pop-Pop used to tell me that story before bed. Said it was their first battle. After that, the Badger Guard grew. Started helping nearby towns. Took down a warband once. People said they were so fierce, whole squads would scatter the moment they saw their banner."
She looked down at her lap. "Pop-Pop taught me a lot—about loyalty, standing up for what's right… and mercy. He believed people can change. Even the worst of them. That sometimes, what people need isn't punishment—it's a reason to fight for something better."
Her gaze drifted upward, toward the cloudy sky. "I know there are people out there who've done horrible things. Maybe things no one should forgive. But I still believe everyone deserves a chance. A real one. Or at the very least… a choice." She paused. "Because if we lose that hope—what's left to fight for?"
Astrea was quiet for a moment. "That's a nice story," she said finally. "Really. Sounds like your Pop-Pop's a good man." Her words grew quieter. "But unbearably naïve."
Helga blinked, her smile faltering.
"You talk about mercy, about second chances," Astrea continued. "But people like you never see what happens when mercy fails. I do. I've seen what 'second chances' do when they go wrong. The child killers who get released on parole because of 'good behavior.' The traffickers who change their names and vanish, only to start all over again somewhere else. The murderers who cry in court and then laugh when the crowds are gone."
She turned; her green eyes hard. "You think everyone deserves a choice? That's easy to say when you haven't had to pick up the pieces. When you haven't had to drag a body out of a river or tell a kid their mum's not coming home."
Helga's brow furrowed; her expression soft with hurt but steady. "I'm not saying the world isn't cruel, Astrea. I'm not blind to it."
"Then stop pretending like hope's enough to fix it!" Astrea snapped. She then exhaled slowly, staring out at the square. "Some people—you don't give them another chance. You put them down before they hurt someone else. That's justice. That's peace. Not stories about badgers and bedtime promises."
Helga was silent for a moment, the words hanging heavy in the air. She looked down at her donut, then back at Astrea.
"Maybe you're right," she said softly. "Maybe mercy does fail sometimes. Maybe some people never change." Her fingers curled around the paper bag. "But I'll still fight for the ones who might."
Astrea exhaled slowly, her eyes slipping closed as she leaned back against the bench. "I suppose that's where we part ways," she said, tinged with something distant. "No hard feelings. I didn't mean to sound harsh. You've been kind—and I appreciate that."
She glanced at Helga, her expression softening. "It's just… I made a promise once. To someone the law failed. Someone who should still be here." She held up her wrist, revealing a simple pastel-colored bracelet worn thin with age. "I didn't know her personally, but she was just a little girl. And when the monster who took her was finally in custody, someone—some idealist—hesitated. Talked about mercy. About second chances."
"She got a grave. He got parole." Her voice turned sharp, colder than the air. "And wouldn't you know it… not even a month passed before that same monster found the bleeding heart who spared him. Made him watch while he carved his family apart—one by one."
Astrea's jaw tightened, grinding with restrained fury. Helga's amber eyes widened, the warmth in them dimming as her lips pressed into a tense, unreadable line.
"Only then did they finally give him the axe. But the damage was done. The bleeding heart hanged himself a week later."
Helga looked down at the bracelet, then back to Astrea's face—no rage, just resolve.
"Because of that I swore I'd never make that mistake," Astrea said. "I won't wait for the law to catch up to evil. I'll meet it where it stands, and end it where it so rightfully deserves."
Helga nodded slowly, a warm, understanding smile tugging at her lips. "I get it. Really. And I don't think you're wrong, Astrea. I think you're doing what you believe is right… just like me."
She stood, brushing the crumbs off her coat. "It's getting late. I should head back."
Astrea stood too, a small smile forming. "Thanks, Helga. For the donuts. And the company." She glanced at the dog now wagging his tail. "Shadow seems to have taken a liking to you too."
Helga grinned. "Guess that makes us friends then."
She turned, waving as she headed off down the quiet street.
Astrea watched her go, then looked down at Shadow, who barked once and licked her hand.
"She's a beam of sunlight wrapped in sugar glaze," Astrea muttered, smirking. "Don't know whether to trust it… or follow it."
Shadow barked again, his tail wagging faster.
It was then that a soft, rhythmic beeping came from her coat pocket. Astrea reached in and pulled out a polished orb, roughly the size of a large marble. She tapped it once—an iridescent glow pulsed before a floating screen flickered into view. With a flick of her finger, she swiped the green icon to the right. The image of Sheriff Hartshorne appeared, face weathered, expression stony.
"Astrea Vikander, I presume."
"Speaking," she said flatly, her eyes narrowing. "To what do I owe the pleasure? In case it escaped your notice, I'm still suspended."
"Consider that lifted," Hartshorne replied. "I'm putting together a team. And I want you on it."
"A team?" Her brow lifted. "And what exactly is our assignment?"
His words dropped, heavy with cold intent. "The annihilation of Nemesis... and anyone who dares stand in our way."
A long, slow smirk crept across her lips, the glint in her eyes like steel catching moonlight. "You have attention, Sheriff."