Steel met steel in a violent clash, sparks bursting like miniature suns as Bastion's greatsword slammed against Astrea's chainsword. The shriek of grinding metal and the raw fury behind each strike sent a ripple of unease through the gathered spectators. Gears whined, sawblades screamed, and the air itself seemed to vibrate with the sheer force of their blows.
Bastion swung his massive blade with terrifying ease, as if the weapon weighed nothing at all. Each arc left a trail of fire in its wake, embers scattering like fireflies, the heat warping the very air around him. Every strike landed with bone-rattling impact, shaking the foundations of the precinct.
He stepped back, muscles coiling, and hoisted the greatsword onto his shoulder. His fingers tightened around the hilt before twisting it with a precise flick. A deep, guttural rev tore through the silence as the weapon roared to life, flames bursting from exhaust vents along the guard. The heat rolled outward in waves, distorting his silhouette like a mirage. With a snarl, he swung.
Astrea met him head-on.
Her chainsword shrieked as it tore through the air, its serrated edge spinning wildly, thirsting for flesh. When their weapons collided, the resulting force sent a concussive blast through the precinct. The glass panes surrounding the dividers exploded into a glittering rain, marble tiles beneath them split and fractured, and the very walls trembled from the impact. The sheer power of the strike sent both combatants hurtling backward, skidding across the wreckage-strewn ground.
Bastion twisted mid-air, planting his feet and digging the blade's edge into the stone to steady himself. He rose, resting the greatsword against his back as he leveled a smoldering glare at Astrea.
"Always knew you were a damned psychopath!" he barked over the fading echoes of destruction. "Even back at the Academy!"
Astrea, breathing heavily, wiped a trickle of blood from her lip. Her grip on the chainsword tightened. "Shut up, murderer!" she spat, venom in every syllable. "I saw what you did! There wasn't even a body left—just pieces! Pieces of the man I admired with every fiber of my being. A man who was like a father to me!"
Bastion smirked, tilting his head with mock curiosity. "Well, that explains a lot." His heterochromatic eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. "No wonder you're as twisted as he is." His smirk widened. "Oh—sorry—was."
Astrea's face contorted with fury. Her chainsword revved again, the rotating blade snarling like a starving beast. "I don't give a damn if you were a Spellblade of Wallace!" she roared. "When I'm done with you, there won't be anything left to bury!"
Bastion let out a low chuckle, slow and taunting. He twisted his grip on his weapon, the deep growl of its rev cutting through the air as flames roared up the blade. The heat surged like a furnace blast, distorting the world around him in shimmering waves.
"Bring it on, sister." His grin was all teeth. "I'll send you on a one way ticket to Hell for a reunion."
Both warriors lunged, war cries splitting the air.
But before their blades could meet again, a voice cut through the chaos.
"Immobulus!"
A crackling surge of blue light erupted within the precinct, its glow casting sharp shadows against the walls. In an instant, both warriors froze mid-motion, their bodies locked in place as if gripped by invisible chains. Their muscles strained, teeth clenched, but the magic held firm. The only thing they could move was their eyes, which shifted toward Frank.
He stood rigid, wand raised, its tip pulsing with restrained power. His expression was carved from stone, but his eyes burned with fury.
"This shit has gone far enough!" Frank barked. "Now I'm gonna lift it, and when I do, those swords better be put away—or so help me, I'll blast both of you so hard you'll wake up a week from now wondering what the hell your last name is. Understand?"
Bastion and Astrea locked eyes, tension still crackling between them like a fraying wire. Neither spoke, but after a moment, they managed to force out a begrudging agreement.
Frank gave a sharp flick of his wand. The spell unraveled in an instant, the weight of it dissipating like smoke. Freed, Bastion rolled his shoulders, muscles flexing, while Astrea inhaled sharply, steadying herself. But the fury had not left her eyes.
The moment she so much as twitched, wands snapped up in her direction. Half a dozen, all glowing at the tip. Frank's included.
"One move, missy," he warned, "and you'll regret it." His mustache bristled as he took a firm stance, making it clear he wasn't bluffing.
Before another word could be spoken, a voice rang through the chaos.
"The hell's going on here?!"
All eyes turned.
A man in his mid to late forties strode forward, his presence commanding enough to make even the most battle-hardened warriors hesitate. His dirty blond hair was slicked back, revealing dark emerald eyes that surveyed the wreckage with an unwavering gaze. He was built like a fortress—broad, stocky, his frame carved from experience rather than aesthetics. His face was sharp, his jaw squared, lines of age and authority etched into his expression.
Like the others, he wore the uniform of an AEGIS Guardian, a tactical vest layered over his suit. But three silver stripes adorned his shoulder, marking him as someone who outranked them all.
Without hesitation, he stepped in front of Astrea.
"Stand down, Guardian," he ordered.
Astrea's jaw tightened. "Captain Langston." The respect in her words was thin, her fury still burning beneath the surface. "This doesn't concern you. You're not part of my command. Justice must be wrought, and I'm here to see it through."
Langston's stare didn't waver. "Then perhaps you didn't get the memo." His tone remained calm, but there was an edge beneath it—unyielding, immovable. "As of this morning, the Seventeenth is under my command. That includes you."
Langston's gaze darkened, his presence alone seeming to pull the air tighter around them. Then came the growl—low, guttural, dangerous.
The massive dog stepped around Astrea, its muscles taut beneath a thick coat of fur, hackles raised. Saliva glistened against its bared fangs, lips curled back in a silent snarl. Its feral eyes locked onto Langston, unwavering and full of primal intent. The beast was ready to lunge, ready to tear into him at the slightest provocation.
Langston didn't so much as flinch.
"And now, stand down," he repeated. "That's an order, Miss Astrea. Your dog too."
Astrea's fists clenched, nails digging into her palms. The fury in her eyes hadn't dulled—it had sharpened, burning hot and wild. Her breath came through gritted teeth. "I'm sorry, Captain, but that is an order I cannot obey."
Langston exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Then I suggest you take a good look around you."
He gestured outward with a measured sweep of his arm.
The tension in the precinct was suffocating.
Guardians and Tower enforcers stood in formation, wands still drawn, their fingers tense over their grips. Their eyes, cold and wary, bore down on her, waiting. Beyond them, civilians—petitioners, merchants, common folk who had come here seeking order—stood frozen, fear stark on their faces. Whispers flitted through the crowd, hushed and uncertain, as if afraid to draw her attention.
It struck her then—the weight of their judgment.
The realization cooled the fire in her chest, if only slightly. Her stance loosened, her shoulders dropping an inch, but her gaze remained locked on Langston, her breath still sharp and uneven. Slowly, her hand moved to her weapon. With controlled precision, she holstered her sword at her side.
"Heel, boy," she murmured.
The dog's growl lingered for a moment longer before it obeyed, settling onto its haunches with a deep, frustrated huff. Its ears remained pricked, muscles still coiled, ready to spring at her command. Frank exchanged glances with the other guards and Guardians. One by one, their wands lowered, but no one relaxed.
Langston's arms folded across his chest, his posture rigid with quiet authority. His expression was unreadable, but when he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of a hammer striking stone.
"Attacking your fellow Guardian. Destroying Tower property." His words were steady, almost calm—but it was the kind of calm that preceded a storm. "They called you unhinged. Unstable. I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt." His emerald eyes hardened. "But now I've seen it for myself."
Astrea's hands curled into fists once more. "Captain Langston, they—"
"—Have been cleared of all suspicion and charges."
Langston's interruption was like the crack of a whip.
"They weren't anywhere near the scene of the crime," he continued. "Dozens of eyewitnesses can attest to that. Dozens more right here in this precinct." He took a step forward, gaze never wavering. "You acted on hearsay and speculation. And people almost got hurt."
He exhaled, but it did little to soften his tone.
"Clegane may have let you run wild. I won't."
Astrea's breath hitched, but she held her ground.
"Turn in your badge, your uniform, and your weapon." Langston's words cut through the air. "As of now, you're on suspension."
Astrea's eyes widened in disbelief. Her mouth opened to protest—but she didn't get the chance.
"One more word, Astrea," Langston warned. "Just one. And you're off the force. Permanently."
The precinct felt deathly still.
For the first time, Astrea hesitated. Her fingers twitched at her sides, trembling with barely restrained rage. Her gaze flicked past Langston—straight to Bastion. And the way she looked at him wasn't anger.
It was hatred. But she swallowed it.
With stiff, measured steps, she turned on her heel, the heavy clink of her boots against the marble floor the only sound in the suffocating silence. The dog rose and padded after her, its movements slow, reluctant, as if it too could feel the weight of the moment.
Neither of them looked back.
Bastion watched as Astrea and her hound vanished into the streets, their silhouettes swallowed by the city beyond the precinct doors. Only when they were out of sight did he exhale before securing his greatsword onto his back with a practiced motion.
His mind drifted. Back to the Academy. Back to the years of narrow, tense encounters with Astrea. They had always kept a measured distance from each other—not far enough to be strangers, but just distant enough to avoid outright conflict. Yet, stories had a way of slipping through the cracks, whispers of their respective exploits circling like wildfire. And from everything he'd heard about her, insane didn't quite cover it. No, Astrea wasn't just unhinged—she was a door completely off its frame.
Langston turned to face both Frank and Bastion, straightening his stance before offering a short bow. "I apologize on behalf of myself and my team," he said evenly. "I should've put a stop to this the first chance I got."
"Ease up, Langston," Frank said, sliding his wand back into its holster. "No harm, no foul. Ain't your fault you got saddled with a dame who's got a few screws loose."
"That's putting it lightly," Bastion muttered. "Seems the Tower's standards for psych evaluations have been slipping. Surely, we're not that desperate for recruits that we're handing out badges to lunatics."
Langston chuckled, shaking his head. "And you must be the Reinhardt kid I've heard so much about." His lips curled into a charming grin. "Your grandfather and I go way back."
Bastion arched a brow. "That so?"
Langston glanced at Frank before continuing. "I was part of the last squad of cadets trained by the great Overdeath himself, before he passed. Me and Frank here."
Frank let out a low chuckle. "And look at you now, captain of your own squad. Wilhelm would've been proud."
Langston smirked. "Oh, please. You'd have been captain long ago if you weren't so damned stubborn." He leaned in slightly, "Between you and me, Frank's turned down the rank more than three times over the past twenty years."
Bastion shot the older man an amused glance. "Oh, really now?"
Frank groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Come on, you didn't have to tell the kid that." With a sigh, he crossed his arms. "And if you must know, I don't do well in leadership. Too much bureaucracy, too much red tape. I belong on the beat—same as you."
"Anyway," Langston extended a firm hand. "Shane Langston, Captain of the Fourteenth Division. When you're done playing rookie and looking for a squad, we'd be happy to have you."
Bastion clasped his hand in a solid shake. "I'll keep that in mind."
Langston smirked, then ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back. "Well, after everything that's happened, I'd wager you two could use a strong cup of coffee." He exhaled sharply. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go straighten out this whole mess before the damned Sheriff gets on my ass again."
With a nod, he turned on his heel and strode toward the hallway beside the staircase, his presence lingering even after he disappeared from view.
Bastion watched him go before cracking a smirk. "He's… nice. For an AEGIS Guardian, at least."
Frank scoffed. "Not all of us are crazy, twisted bastards, kid. There are good people in the force—Langston's one of 'em." He glanced toward the hallway. "Cut his teeth in AEGIS during the orc insurrection in Vol'dunin. Believe me, he's seen more action than most of us combined."
Bastion let out a low whistle. "Vol'dunin, huh? That's rough. Seems like every time I turn around, there's another war brewing between the orc tribes. Some more bloodthirsty than others."
"You said it, kid," Frank said with a dry chuckle. "I saw my fair share of blood and carnage in Falmouth. Can't even begin to imagine what Langston's been through." He stretched, his back cracking audibly. "Now, about that coffee?"
Bastion smirked. "Only if you're buying."
****
For centuries, the Crown City of Camelot had endured the march of time, rising from a humble settlement in the middle of nowhere to the sprawling metropolis it was today. Towering spires pierced the sky, their glass and steel facades shimmering beneath the sun. Airships droned overhead, their engines humming like distant thunder, while below, the steady scrape of wheels against asphalt echoed through the streets as hundreds of vehicles wove through the veins of the ever-living city.
But beneath this pristine façade of progress lay a darker truth.
Beyond the manicured lawns and alabaster homes of the residential districts, past the polished skyscrapers and bustling marketplaces, the city's underbelly festered. In the slums, where filth clung to the streets like a second skin, the poor, the forgotten, and the desperate scraped out what existence they could from the ever-shrinking scraps left behind.
The stench of tainted river water rose from the sewers, mingling with the acrid smog belched from the industrial district's towering smokestacks. There was no privilege here. No hierarchy of suffering. Humans, therianthropes, elves, orcs—race meant nothing when hunger gnawed at the belly, when the cold sank deep into the bones. Here, survival was the only law, and those who couldn't keep up were left to fend for themselves—or to be forgotten entirely.
This was the world Isha knew.
Their apartment, a crumbling husk of peeling paint and fractured concrete, had been her entire existence. The walls were cracked, the furniture battered and broken, the air thick with the scent of mildew. The bathroom was coated in a film of damp decay, the pipes leaking more rust than water.
She lay curled beneath a tattered blanket, its fabric worn thin, barely shielding her from the cold seeping through the walls. The grime-covered window by her bed cast a dull, grayish light into the room, revealing every imperfection, every sign of neglect.
This four-by-four space was all she had ever known.
Her parents had been gone for years, lost in a tragic accident, leaving only her and her brother to navigate a world that had never once been kind to them.
A sudden cough tore through her throat, wracking her frail frame. She clamped a hand over her mouth, her body trembling from the force of it. When she pulled her palm away, blood speckled her skin.
She wheezed, her breath shallow, her chest tight with the weight of weakness.
How she cursed this body. How she cursed the fate the gods had bestowed upon her. To be born fragile. To be nothing but a burden to the one person she cared for more than life itself.
The wooden door creaked open, its hinges groaning in protest as a young elven boy stepped inside. He was barely in his late teens, dressed in clothes stitched together with rough thread, each patch a reminder of hardship. An old coat, a size too large, draped over his frame, its sleeves frayed at the edges. Beneath it, his shirt and trousers were mismatched, fabrics salvaged from wherever he could find them. His blonde hair was tucked beneath a torn leather beret, and his wide sapphire eyes flickered with concern as they locked onto her.
"Isha!" he cried, dropping his bag without a second thought. He was at her side in an instant, falling to his knees. His hands moved with urgency, reaching for the cracked jug by her bedside. He poured water into a chipped mug, his fingers trembling as he held it out to her.
"Here, drink this."
Isha pushed herself up with effort, taking the cup in shaky hands. She sipped slowly, struggling to swallow, each gulp feeling heavier than it should. She sighed. "Arno, please… I'm fine."
"No, you're not," Arno shot back. "I'll go to Mister Herman for another loan—get you more medicine." He moved to stand, already preparing to leave, but Isha's frail fingers caught the sleeve of his coat.
"No!" she rasped, gripping him as tightly as she could. "That man is wicked. He's bleeding you dry with interest alone! You have to stop, Arno. You have to—"
Her words were swallowed by another violent fit of coughing. She curled forward, her body trembling as she struggled for breath.
"Isha, please," Arno murmured. He eased her back down, adjusting the thin, tattered blanket over her shoulders. "I have this covered. I'll take more shifts at the factory. Don't worry about me. Just focus on getting better."
Her breathing was labored, shallow. She looked up at him, sorrow etched into every line of her face. "Brother… you know that'll never happen." Her fingers reached for his cheek, brushing against his skin with the last bit of strength she could muster. "My days are numbered, and I've long accepted that. You don't have to keep doing this. You can leave this city. Leave me. I'm not worth it, Arno."
"Stop." Arno's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with resolve. "We've been through this. I'm not leaving you. I never will." He swallowed hard. "Someday, I'll make enough—for you, for me, for both of us. We'll leave this place together."
"Arno…" Isha's vision blurred, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Arno leaned into her touch, his expression softening. "I love you, Isha. We'll see a better tomorrow." His words were steady. Certain. "I promise."
But the words began to fade.
They crumbled into echoes, slipping away like sand in the wind.
Isha remembered.
The town square. The jeering crowd. Their voices crashing over one another in a deafening roar.
Tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting, her own cries lost beneath the chaos.
Her sapphire eyes locked onto the gallows.
Arno stood upon the platform, bruised, bloodied, hands bound behind his back. The noose hung heavy around his throat, its coarse fibers biting into his skin.
He turned toward her, his lips parting in one last, fragile smile.
The lever pulled.
The trapdoor gave way.
The rope snapped taut.
His body jerked—then fell still.
The cheers of the crowd swallowed Isha's screams.
The image faded to black.
And from the darkness, she remembered.
A young man stood before her, his presence looming as she lay upon the cold stone floor of the temple. Her body was battered—her feet raw and bruised from the climb, her fingernails torn, fingers scraped to the bone. The weight of exhaustion pressed against her chest, but still, she looked up.
From beneath the shadow of his hood, a pair of amber eyes stared down at her—steady, knowing.
Lightning split the blackened sky, illuminating the world in jagged flashes. Rain lashed against the stone, running in rivulets through the cracks. The wind howled through the temple's hollow corridors, making the flames of the torches flicker and twist in wild, chaotic patterns.
And in his hand, he held a sword.
Black as the deepest void, its blade swallowed the light around it. But along its obsidian surface, veins of molten amber pulsed like fire, the glow shifting, breathing, alive.
She remembered the smell—the acrid scent of burning flesh, of soot and smoldering embers. The temple reeked of ruin, of something scorched beyond salvation.
Most of all, she remembered his voice.
A whisper, curling through the storm like a promise. A vow laced with quiet certainty.
A promise of retribution.
A chance to make the wrong things right.
And so, with the last of her strength, she spoke.
"By the Maker, I do."
A scream tore through the darkness.
And from the shadows, she was reborn.
****
Isha's eyes snapped open, her breath sharp and ragged as she jolted upright. Cold sweat clung to her pale skin, her pulse pounding in her ears. The darkness of the room pressed around her, unfamiliar at first, but then—recognition. The old watchtower. Their refuge since arriving in Caerleon.
She exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose as she groaned.
"You know we don't really have to sleep, aye?"
The gruff voice broke through the quiet, drawing her attention. Gunnar sat at the rickety wooden table, legs kicked up, a whiskey bottle in hand.
Isha's gaze flicked to the floor—dozens of empty bottles lay scattered, glinting in the dim torchlight "We don't have to drink either," she muttered. "Yet here you are."
The stocky dwarf smirked, swiping a rough hand across his lips and thick red beard. "Lass, I don't drink tae quench ma thirst." His words carried a weight, the humor barely hidin' the bitterness beneath. "I drink for the same reason every bastard drinks—tae forget."
"Does it help?" Isha asked.
"Nope. Not really."
Gunnar tipped the bottle back, letting the last few drops roll onto his tongue before tossing it over his shoulder. It clinked against the wooden floor, joining the graveyard of glass at his feet.
"But I sure like tae pretend it does." His amber eyes met hers, the usual mischief dulled by something heavier. "I'd rather be unconscious than asleep. Least when ye're blacked out drunk, ye ain't haunted by the things they want ye tae remember."
Isha's gaze dropped to the worn floorboards beneath her feet. "I thought that with that bastard gone, I'd finally feel… something. Peace. Satisfaction." Her fingers curled into a fist, her nails digging into her palm. "Watching him writhe in fear, begging for his life. Knowing he's rotting in a place where he'll suffer for all eternity. I thought that would be enough."
Her fists loosened, one hand pressing against her chest. "But I feel nothing. Just this dull, hollow emptiness. Like I'm nothing."
She let out a quiet, bitter chuckle. "And the nightmares? They don't go away. They never do."
"That just means we're far from done."
The deep, rumbling voice pulled both Isha and Gunnar's attention toward the towering orc leaning against the wall. Orgrim's arms were crossed over his chest, his gaze steady, unwavering.
"Vengeance isn't meant to be fulfilling," he said. "It's not supposed to bring satisfaction. It's more than personal vendettas." He straightened, the torchlight casting harsh shadows over his features. "It's a reverence. A duty. An obligation. Something we owe to those we've lost—to those who came before us, and those who'll come after."
His words were a slow, deliberate weight. "It's our responsibility to rid this world of the monsters who've wronged us. To soil our hands so no one else has to lift that blackened sword the way we did."
He exhaled, his tusks glinting under the crystal light. "Like you, I was consumed by my anger. I wanted retribution. I wanted my pound of flesh." His amber eyes flickered, distant. "But vengeance for the sake of vengeance is simple. Petty. Hollow. Meaningless."
His jaw tensed. "I wanted more than that. I wanted to take the darkness away from those who craved it. To give them closure—without damning them. Unlike us." His gaze turned to Isha, holding hers with quiet intensity. "That is how I find my peace."
Silence hung between them for a moment.
Then Gunnar laughed.
"Ach, speak for yerself, ye great lumberin' oaf," he scoffed. "Peace? Ain't got a feckin' clue what that feels like." He leaned back, taking a long, slow breath. "Anger's the only thing that keeps me breathin'. The only thing that keeps the fire in these veins."
He slammed a fist against his chest. "Reminds these old bones that there's still a dwarf out here who ain't dead yet!" His amber eyes burned, wild and fierce.
"And I'll make them pay."
Gunnar shot up from his seat. "I'll make the bastards feel it. Every bit of pain they've left in their wake." His breath was ragged, his fists trembling at his sides. "Let their bairns hold their lifeless corpses in their hands—let 'em cry their feckin' hearts out. Just as I did."
His words echoed through the room, laced with something raw, something that had never healed.
Gunnar's eyes darkened as they locked onto Orgrim. "And ye should know." His gaze lingered, unyielding. "Ye were a father too."
And for a long moment, no one spoke.
The silence was broken by the steady rhythm of footsteps ascending the staircase. All three turned their heads as Asriel emerged, reaching up to pull back his hood. His expression remained stoic, unreadable—but in the dim light, a rare flicker of amusement gleamed in his amber eyes.
"Seems the vicious murder of the Ogre of AEGIS has the whole city running scared," he said, a smirk ghosting across his lips. "From the Clock Tower to the common folk—even the Mayor. I hear whispers she's none too pleased with the Director or the Sheriff."
He let the words linger, his gaze shifting toward Isha. "Which is exactly what we want." His smirk deepened. "I must admit, you do have a knack for inspiring fear."
Isha's own smirk mirrored his, a quiet satisfaction settling in her expression.
"Feckin' brilliant, then." Gunnar stepped toward a stack of wooden crates, grabbing a fresh bottle of whiskey. With a practiced motion, he uncorked it, tipping it back for a long swig. "Another bastard off the list. Guess we're down tae the ones we can count on one hand, eh?"
Asriel nodded. "We move on to the next." His gaze shifted to Orgrim. "It's your turn."
Orgrim pushed off the wall. "Is he here?" His tone low, measured. "Did you see him?"
Asriel smirked. "Kicking. Breathing."
Orgrim cracked his knuckles, the sound like distant thunder.
"Not for long."
He drew a sharp breath, his tusks glinting in the low light.
"Shane Langston…" he spoke. "For the memory of the Warsong Clan, I will have your head."